


Zeitgeist

by Kissy



Series: The Zeitgeist Trilogy [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:33:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissy/pseuds/Kissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Got a  five-dollar word in this chapter.  I'll try to 'splain.</p>
<p>I'm an erstwhile SCAdian from the tiny barony of An Dubhaigeainn, located in the East Kingdom (that's the New England/Tri-state/Eastern Canadian provinces area to you mundanes, wink-wink), and a little bit of SCAdian speech found its way into this chapter.  So...here is the definition of this chapter's five-dollar word:</p>
<p>Vivat: (from the Dictionary of Difficult Words) 'may he or she live'; long live; hurrah. </p>
<p>Hope that clarified a really anachronistic word. Toodles!</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Complications

_In a letter addressed to Queen Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca, dated 17 September 713:_

_Ashelia Dalmasca,_

_It seems that Ivalice has once again beaten back Death, thanks largely in part to you and your comrades. There shall be much rejoicing in Rozzaria. Personally, I shall lead the people in said rejoicing, and most likely will wake up with a sore head and sour stomach in the morning._

_It is not of our coming merriment that I write to you, dear Ashelia. I write to you with a business arrangement. As Rozzaria and Dalmasca are now comrades-in-arms, may I propose to you a joining of our countries through marriage?_

_I may be a part of the Royal Family here in Rozzaria, but am by no means next to ascend the throne. This arrangement benefits both Rozzaria and Dalmasca—I will make certain that nothing shall befall your dear country...and you get the most eligible bachelor in all of Ivalice. Win-win situation, no? Never again will your country be assailed by any of our neighbors, not while it is under the loving guidance and care of Rozzaria._

_My country and Archades have already reached this happy conclusion, with the upcoming nuptials of the Emperor and my own sister Marguerite Alandra. Galtea be thanked, they have both recovered from the Plague with no ill after-effects._

_Something to think about, yes? I await your answer with bated breath._

_Until then, I am always yours,  
Al-Cid Margrace_

-=-=-=-=-=-

Ashe blinked once, as she raised the single rose petal that was contained therein. “Oh, my,” said she, as she glanced over her shoulder at Basch. She had to stifle the tiny smile that threatened. Basch looked as angry and jealous as Balthier did, when Al-Cid charmed her in Mount Bur-Omisace.

She stood, and wrapped her arms around his middle. “Surely...you don't think I'll accept, do you?”

Basch grunted once. He gave the parchment a sour look. “No...but this is going to complicate matters.” He placed his hands over Ashe's mountainous belly. He felt the baby move under his fingers, and sighed once. “Quite a bit, actually.”

Ashe brought the rose petal to eye level, and blew an irritated sigh. “This is...not good.”


	2. Die Wende

Ten days.

His wedding would take place in ten days. 

When Basch had returned to the Palace, when he found Ashe had kindled again, Ashe had offered him the duchy again. This time, he took Ashe's offer. With the baby's imminent arrival, they had to hurry their plans along. If the child was born, and they were not married, the baby would be illegitimate. Basch would not allow that, so he accepted. He was now a Duke. No, that wasn't quite right— _Noah_ was. Word had spread from the Royal Compound to the populace. Their nuptials were greatly anticipated by all of Ivalice.

His dream had finally come true. He would marry the one woman that held his heart.

But at what price?

He looked into their _boudoir_ mirror, and his reflection gazed back blandly. He gazed at all the little things that told the casual observer how old he was. He raised his hands, and his doppelganger ran his fingers through his graying hair. His face, seemingly overnight, had sprouted a dry-wash of tiny wrinkles. His eyes narrowed at his reflection, and the crows-feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly.

The events of the past ten years had aged him, far quicker than he should have aged. What was it, exactly, that had been the catalyst? Was it the rebellion? Was it the Plague? Was it the new threat on the horizon—the whispers of war? Did it go further back than that?

Basch thought of his mother. His gut twisted painfully, as his throat tightened. He missed her. He wished that he saw her, once, before she died.

His mother...she was so sickly, so weak...and yet, she stayed so strong for Noah and himself. And how did Basch repay her for her bravery and for her undying desire to keep them safe from harm? He ran from her. He ran from _them._ His brother never forgave him for that, not until the end of his life.

When Basch left Landis for Dalmasca, he never saw his mother again. Noah spirited Mother to Archades after Landis's fall, whisked her to his new home, so she could live out the rest of her life in relative comfort. As Gramis offered Noah a new life as a Judge Magister, Noah took their mother's maiden name. The mere thought of sharing a last name with his detestable, deserting twin disgusted Noah so. 

When their mother died, Noah's hatred for him intensified to the point of madness. Basch considered that for a moment. It never did die, Noah's hatred...did it? They might have forgiven each other for the wrongs they had inflicted, but that tiny shard of hate still festered in Noah's dying heart. Why, indeed, would he be so cruel at the very end, if he still did not harbor hatred? Why would Noah ask Basch to take his place? Why would Noah force his hand and ask Basch to leave behind all that he held dear?

 _“Mutter,”_ said Basch, sighing. _“Hättest du das erlaubt?”_

The treachery he envisioned was indeed coming. The whispers on the wind told them that Rozarria's Royal Army was increasing its numbers again, and were on the move. They were nearing Archades...and amassing at the Imperial border. The implications froze Basch to the core.

And Al-Cid...why would he propose to Ashe? What brought that on? Why _now?_ There was more than met the eye here.

Basch tilted his gaze down to his sleeping Queen. His countenance softened. Was it right to allow Ashe to marry him? He was growing old. She deserved better...and if Al-Cid offered something that Ashe could not refuse, would she accept? Would he, Basch, be tossed aside like so much rubbish?

Would it be advantageous for Ashe to take the Rozarrian's proposal? 

Someone rapped sharply on their door, startling Basch out of his reverie. Ashe woke up then, and muzzily addressed the visitor. “Come.”

The courier opened the door. “My Queen...Lord Gabranth—Rozarria is on the move! They have invaded northern Archades!”

Ashe's eyes widened. “Why? Rozarria and Archades are allied now!”

“No more, my Queen.” The courier scrubbed the heel of his hand across his lips. “Rozarria has declared war on Archades. My sources say that they will destroy Archades and every one of Her allies if 'the truth is not set free'...whatever that means.”

Basch blanched. _He_ knew what it meant, and all the implications that went along with it. “What? If what you're saying is true, then every single principality and kingdom on Ivalice is in danger!”

-=-=-=-=-=-

In the gloom of the receiving hall, Al-Cid and his principal assistant waited for an audience with Ashe with growing impatience. Al-Cid tapped his foot. “I _must_ see the Queen!”

“Please understand, my Lord,” said Ashe's Royal Page, “she will be here directly. She has been...under the weather, as of late.”

The flickering sconces surrounding the throne flickered and threw dim light across Al-Cid's smoky specs. They flashed again when he whirled on the page. “I do not _care!_ Get her. Now! Time is of the essence!”

“What in the _world_ , Al-Cid?” The Queen swept into her court, followed by her stalwart men-at-arms. She approached Al-Cid, and frowned mightily. “What is so pressing that you couldn't wait? We already know of the Rozarrian threat.”

“You have no idea of the _true_ threat, or what the catalyst would be,” said Al-Cid. He glanced down at Ashe's obvious late-term pregnancy, and his normally swarthy face darkened further. “So it is true, then,” said Al-Cid. He shook his head at Basch. “I was told that the Lady Ashelia was in a 'family way'.”

Basch flashed Al-Cid a withering glare. “You can say that.”

The Rozarrian royal flicked his disbelieving gaze at Ashe. “ _This_ is why you bestowed the dukedom on him? So you could marry in haste? Not good,” said Al-Cid. He pensively flicked an errant curl from his forehead. “This does not bode well.”

Ashe crossed her arms. “Is there something you're not telling us?”

Al-Cid twisted his lips wryly. He glanced at his feet as he began to pace Ashe's sitting room. He took off his sunglasses and held them out to his 'bird'. When she did not immediately take them, he thrust them into her hands and turned his back on the diminutive girl. With his back turned, Al-Cid's 'bird' favored him with a look that could stop a clock. Basch's eyebrows knit. _Someone_ besides himself wasn't thrilled with the Royal's marriage proposal.

“There are quite a few thing I have not told you, yet. I did not propose to you because of true love, or even as a business arrangement. It is to protect your country.” Al-Cid folded his arms across his chest. “Rozarria is on the rampage.”

“We know,” said Ashe. “It is not an issue. Dalmasca—and all of Her allies—are safe due to Her allegiance with Archades. They will prevail over this threat...”

“Enough, Majesty,” interrupted Al-Cid. “If you continue with your nuptials to the good Captain, Archades will not be able to help you.”

Ashe exchanged a panicked glance with Basch. He licked his lips, and said, “Why? Why wouldn't Archades be of any assistance? I am a Judge Magister, and of the nobility, now. What has changed?”

“Do you think I am the only one that knows of your... _delicate_...condition, Ashelia?” He advanced on Ashe, and dipped his head close to hers. “The cunningly wrought web you have woven is unraveling, Highness. My family, they know who Judge Magister Noah Gabranth _really_ is.”

Basch paled. “Galtea wept. How?”

Al-Cid glared at his assistant. “Some birds sing too loudly.”

Ashe's throat began to constrict. She swallowed reflexively, and it hurt. “All that we worked for...it was all for naught. What do we do now?”

“Your ruse,” said Al-Cid with a _moue_ of annoyance, “it must end. If you insist on your marriage to the 'Judge Magister', my family's vengeance will be swift and ugly. I do not wish that on you...on either of you.”

Ashe's head reeled with the implications. If she waited too long to marry, her child would be born illegitimate. If she married Basch, the known world would know the High-treasonous Kingslayer was impersonating a Judge, and he would be put to his death. Rozarria would invade, and undercut her credibility by spreading the word that she knowingly married a commoner after he saddled her with a bastard. If she married Al-Cid, it would stop all-out war...but where did that leave her heart's blood? What did that reduce Basch to—a _concubine?_

No. She would not— _could_ not—allow her country or her heart to be shattered by this new turn of events. Come what may, she would figure out the answer to this dilemma.

Al-Cid continued. “This marriage proposal is an effort on my part to save you both and your country— _every_ country. The Kingslayer is your future husband. My family knows, and they are incensed beyond belief. They see this as a direct affront to the peace—the _alliance_ —between our countries!” 

Basch crossed his arms over his chest. “You are here to stop war between our countries—and yet, you seem overly upset at Ashe's condition. Why? Does it bother you that she is spoken for?”

Al-Cid narrowed his eyes. “No. You are not the only one inconvenienced by this new turn of events. Do you think I will not sacrifice, if I convince Lady Ashe to abandon her plans? I have my own life to live, Captain. By marrying Ashelia, I would have to give up _my_ 'birds'.”

Basch scowled. “You poor, poor man.”

The royal playboy's dark eyes flashed dangerously. “Never forget that I am a _true_ nobleman, fon Ronsenburg. Mind your tongue.”

Ashe's breath caught as Basch's face darkened with angry blood. “Stop this,” she whispered.

“I didn't ask for the duchy... _sir,”_ said Basch through clenched teeth. “I accepted it because I want Her Majesty to be happy. She wishes us to marry—and to do that, I must be noble...Noah Gabranth must be noble. I will give unto Ashe whatever she desires.”

Al-Cid tossed his ebon curls angrily. “Do you not hear yourself? You are living a _lie!_ The truth lies here!” He jabbed his chest with his fingers. 

“Convincing words from a heartless bastard that has his own harem,” said Basch. His hands curled into fists. 

“Stop it... _please!”_ Ashe's words were still barely above a whisper. Why could she not unlock her throat? 

Al-Cid's swarthy face paled. _“You_...you call my birds...a _harem?”_

“I call it as I see it!”

_“Enough!”_

The men whirled about as the Queen of Dalmasca barked the command. Basch blinked, mostly in bewilderment. “Ashe...what...”

“I'll not hear your mindless bickering for one more second. I am not a carnival prize!” Ashe drew herself up regally, and immediately regretted speaking at all. Her stomach curdled when she saw Basch's countenance fracture. “Basch...I...”

“Your love for the Queen is admirable, Captain, but it will not save her—or your country—from disaster. Only I can.” His mouth twisted bitterly, and he drew a deep breath. “As misguided as your single-mindedness is in regards to Ashelia, I understand it. You say I have a harem, and perhaps you are right. My birds are not merely my assistants.”

Basch tore his eyes from his Queen, and regarded Al-Cid incredulously. “What?”

“I _am_ capable of love, Captain...quite a bit of it, in fact. My reputation as a _heartless_ playboy is highly exaggerated. My birds hold my heart, and I have hurt them by coming to Dalmasca to woo the Lady Ashelia.” His gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, to his principal 'bird'. Basch turned his head and gazed at the diminutive Rozarrian assistant. She tearfully presented her back to them.

Al-Cid's voice tore Basch back to reality. “What will the good Captain do, now?”

He leveled his gaze at Al-Cid. “I will do whatever my Queen asks of me. Whatever she chooses to do, I will bow to her will.”

Al-Cid nodded, considering. He turned his countenance to Ashe. “Whomever you choose, Ashelia, you will always find me as your ally. That will never change.” He knelt before Ashe, and took her hand. He tenderly kissed her palm. “I wish I could say the same for my country.”

“I know,” replied Ashe. “Were it another time, friend, another place...I would have said yes to your proposal. As it is, however, another holds _my_ heart.” She crossed the room to Basch, and took his hand. “I am spoken for.”

Al-Cid smiled sadly at Ashe. “It is as I thought. So be it. I will do what I can to stay my family's ire. I am officially here as a spy, anyway.” He sobered and stood. “I will tell them that Basch is indeed Noah Gabranth. Father might believe me...I think. I've not angered him for at least a month or so.” 

Ashe dropped her head on Basch's chest. She laughed, relieved that the animosity in the room had dissipated somewhat. She tilted her gaze up at her heart's blood.

Basch knew the command that lurked behind those shining eyes. He sighed once, and steeled himself for the mortification. “Lord Margrace...I apologize for speaking out of turn. I humbly beg your...”

Al-Cid flapped his hands at Basch. “ _Pssh..._ stop. You had every right to stake claim on what is rightfully yours.” Al-Cid nodded to Ashe. “Begging Her Majesty's pardon, of course.”

“Of course,” Ashe echoed. 

Al-Cid smiled at Basch, and held his hand out to him. Basch took it. Al-Cid quirked an eyebrow. “And don't call me 'Lord Margrace' again. That is my father, not me.”

“Done.”

Al-Cid released Basch's hand, and herded his assistant towards Ashe's chamber door. “This bird will have to be whipped publicly for her false accusations, of course, but I'll go easy on her.” He winked at Ashe. “She likes it, anyway,” he said, _sotto voce._

Ashe's eyebrows vaulted to her hairline, and she blinked at Al-Cid's 'bird'. A small smile, sweet as cream, dimpled her cheeks. Her café au lait skin flushed slightly when Al-Cid grasped her hand and tugged her unceremoniously through the doorway.

Al-Cid called out to Ashe over his shoulder. “I shall keep in touch, Ashelia. Until then, I take my leave. Farewell!”

The silence that descended was palpable. Basch was the first to break it. “Ashe...what do we do now?”

She met his eyes. “The wedding is in ten days. We still have so much to do before that. _Someone_ needs to bang the dents out of his armor before the parade.”

He chuckled. “Despite imminent disaster, you chose me. Wonders never cease.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “There was no choice to _be_ made. I am yours, and you are mine. Al-Cid didn't figure on that, did he?”

“So it would seem.” He touched his forehead to hers. “I will keep you safe from harm. This new challenge will not make me renege that promise, ever.”

Ashe caught his face between her hands. “I know.”


	3. The Ties That Bind

The procession marched stolidly down the nearly-deserted avenue. Ashe shivered in the cold, January pre-dawn. Luck had it they were marrying during the deepest part of Dalmasca's winter _and_ at the coldest point of the day, simply because Ashe needed to wear enough shimmering samite to cover her nearly-full-term pregnancy without raising too many eyebrows. 

They had asked the planner for a simple, pomp-free procession, and the planner bowed to their wishes by creating a parade more ostentatious than Ashe and Rasler's wedding procession.

Ashe huddled close to Basch. If she did so to take some of his body heat, her attempts were in vain. He wore the full armor of Judge Magister Gabranth. He cradled his death's-head helmet under one arm. He shivered violently in the cold confines of his suit of armor. His teeth chattered, and his lips were turning an alarming shade of blue.

After a spell, Basch addressed Ashe. “I have an odd feeling.”

“What is it, darling?” Ashe touched his cheek with the back of her fingers.

He shook his head, unable to convey in words the unrest he felt in his bones. “Erm...I didn't want to be the center of attention today...but I _am_ a bit let down. A _few_ cheering Rabanastrans would've made me feel a bit warmer...”

“I must say, Basch...you can't lie to save your life.” Ashe placed her arm on his metal-clad forearm. “Really—what is it?”

He tapped his teeth together, deep in thought. Finally: “The letter, love. The unsigned letter from Rozarria. It...troubled me.”

Ashe nodded mutely. Two days ago, they received a rolled parchment, signed only with Rozarria's Royal Seal. It simply said:

_Do not marry the Kingslayer. We will retaliate with much violence, if you continue with this farce. Consider this fair warning._

“I have a very bad feeling about the letter, that's all,” said Basch. “It chilled me. I—I know nothing terrible will happen today, but still...”

The procession turned the corner, and marched down the main thoroughfare. Basch's jaw thumped to his chest. Mute with shock, he blinked once. It looked as if the entire population of Dalmasca had turned out full-force. They flanked the thoroughfare, ten-deep, for miles. Ashe's breath caught at the lovely sight of her people, as they gathered _en-masse_ to shower them with their best wishes and felicitations.

When the crowd caught sight of their carriage, a most welcome sound rose from them. It was a lovely noise, their cheers, and wave after wave of adulation washed over the pair, warming them to their near-frozen bones.

“They came,” marveled Basch. “It looks like they're all here—the entire population of Dalmasca! It's freezing...it is five o'clock in the morning...and they've come to greet us, anyway!”

As the procession slowly wound its way to the cathedral, Ashe tilted her gaze up at her affianced. She grinned. Basch managed to smile warmly at the crowd and look mortified at the same time...just as Rasler did, when they were wed. A young woman broke from the crowd, and handed Basch a small flower. She waved once, and he returned the gesture before she melted back into the throng. Ashe laughed aloud. “Darling?”

He quirked his eyebrow at Ashe. “Hrmm?”

She inclined her head at the crowd. “You miss this, don't you?”

“Perhaps I do,” he laughed sheepishly. “When I was your Captain, I lived for this. The adoration, the cheers...I reveled in it. I am as common as they are, and it felt good to bask in their love.”

“You aren't common, not anymore,” said Ashe. She smiled archly. “You have me to thank for that.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Basch, now somewhat distracted. “Thanks kindly, Highness.”

Ashe continued, and now Basch had to strain to hear her voice. “Since we have taken our lives back from the Plague, the populace has fallen in love with you again—as an Archadian. Your name is now synonymous with 'humanitarian', and 'healer', Judge Magister. No good deed goes unnoticed here in Rabanastre. You are loved by Dalmasca once again...Gabranth. How does that make you feel?”

Basch merely smiled at his Queen, before casting his gaze to the cheering, deafening multitudes. “Hollow, my Queen,” he whispered to no one. “I feel hollow inside.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Marquis Halim Ondore IV gazed out at the milling crowd. So many had come to wish the newlyweds well! They pushed themselves into the cavernous church, until the walls were nearly bursting.

He was happy beyond measure that Ashe asked him to officiate at the ceremony, but it hurt his heart a little that this was the second time he had to do so. He prayed fervently that this would be the last time he would have to officiate at _anything_ involving Ashelia. 

Ondore cleared his throat, and the crowd stilled. He smiled at the masses as he raised his hands, palms up. “Today, we are witness to a truly groundbreaking event. Today, your Royal, Queen Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca-Nabradia, weds the Archadian Judge Magister, Lord Noah Gabranth. Here before me stands two of the finest examples of adversity overcome. Both people have faced many obstacles to bring peace to Ivalice. Both have suffered hardships, both personal and political. 

“And both now stand before me with a greater challenge: the unification of two countries that were once enemies...through love, and respect, and honor. They stand before me today, supplicants to the Great Goddess, as they ask for each other's hand in marriage. They do this, not only to cement the bonds that the re-unified Archadian Empire and the Kingdom of Dalmasca have forged, but to also commit themselves to each other, in love. Together, they wish to unify the world through their love-bond. Together, they will conquer adversity with amity.

“Time—it does not keep this couple apart, for age is but a number, and Queen Ashelia is wise and learned beyond her years. Miles—this too does not make their hearts grow less fond, for is it not the Judge Magister's sacred duty to uphold the law, sow peace, and protect the Empire to which he has sworn fealty? He has brought those sterling traits to your beloved Rabanastre, and helped you heal from the ravages of the dread Plague.”

A few hearty cheers erupted from their audience, and Basch crimsoned. Their comrades—true friends, all—sat in places of honor among royalty and nobility. Seated beside Lord Larsa himself, Balthier whistled once, between his fingers, and Ashe frowned mightily at him. She could see _Fomalhaut_ peek out of his jerkin. She warned him not to bring his arquebus to the cathedral. Despite her distasteful glare at Balthier, the crowd roared its approval at the sky-pirate's coarse show of camaraderie.

Ondore continued, smiling broadly. “Join me today, as we usher in a new era...as these two are wed before Galtea, and all the Gods. Raise your voices on high, to celebrate the marriage of your Queen to her Prince Consort!”

Ashe smiled for her affianced, garnering the couple an exuberant _“Vivat Queen Ashelia! Vivat Lord Gabranth! Vivat, vivat, VIVAT!”_ from the crowd.

Basch brought his face close to Ashe's, and whispered into her ear. “Prince Consort-Judge Magister-Duke Noah Gabranth-fon Ronsenburg? That's...cumbersome.”

Ashe laughed merrily, and her voice sounded like tiny silver bells. Halim Ondore harrumphed again, more insistently. Ashe and Basch turned to gaze at Ondore, who raised his eyebrows. “Shall we begin, Ashelia? I wait with bated breath,” said Ondore under his breath.

“Sorry, Uncle,” murmured Ashe.

Ondore smiled indulgently. “Right. As I was saying...” He raised his hands high, and addressed the rafters. “In the name of the great Mother...”

One person, near the vestibule, suddenly stood. One hand stole into his robes as his other hand parted them.

“...I now pronounce you man and wife.” 

The audience member grasped a cord that hung from his chest. He grinned maniacally.

“May the blessings of our bountiful gods forever guide your path.” 

The man in the audience whispered his own prayer, _sotto voce._

“Faram.”

Ashe's samite gown glowed mellowly in the dimness of the chapel. She reached for Basch, and he gathered Ashe close. He kissed her soundly, amidst tumultuous applause.

When the cheers died away, another susurrus rose from the crowd as they beheld the lone man still standing. “Goodbye, Kingslayer,” said the man aloud. “We warned you.”

The man raised his voice in an ululating war-cry, and tore his robes open. Strapped to his chest was an ancient, man made device capable of destroying the cathedral, its contents, and the surrounding area.

Someone standing in the vestibule shrieked. One cry of terror gave rise to another, and another, until the entire chapel rang with bleating, ear-piercing screams. The man grinned once more, and made to tear the cord out of the device, thus activating it. Basch gathered Ashe close, in an attempt to shield her from the unavoidable...

A resounding crash reverberated through the chapel. The man's head jerked back suddenly. He blinked once, and locked eyes with Basch. He mouthed the word _Kingslayer_ once again. A jagged little hole appeared in the center of the stranger's forehead like a malign magick trick. As he slid to the floor, the hole in his head spouted blood and a horrid slurry of brain matter and splintered bone.

Ashe darted her gaze to the first row of pews. Balthier stood on his seat, his arquebus balanced on one sinewy arm. His hands shook from reaction. His breath tore in and out of his lungs. 

When the Hume-bomb fell, the rest of the wedding's onlookers made a mad rush for the vestibule doors. Even then, Ashe could see the same word on dozens of would-be well-wisher's lips: _Kingslayer?_

-=-=-=-=-=-

Gods...Balthier,” said Ashe shakily. “Had you not been carrying _Fomalhaut_...”

Balthier nervously licked his lips. “I'm glad I defied you, Majesty, and brought _Fomalhaut_ with me. The Gods alone know what would have happened if I didn't.”

“We would've been speaking with the Gods firsthand, _that's_ what,” said Vaan. He held a shivering Penelo close, and stroked her flaxen hair. She sobbed fitfully. Ashe understood completely how the diminutive dancer felt. 

“I can't believe my family would do this,” said Marguerite, the tiny Empress-in-waiting. “We had made pacts of peace! This is insulting beyond _belief!”_

“Softly, Mags,” said Larsa. “This was out of our control. We may have beaten the Rozarrian invasion back at our own border, but we had no idea this would happen here in Rabanastre.”

Basch paled noticeably, but remained quiet. Here was not the place to discuss the Rozarrian letter.

Ashe suddenly remembered Halim. She turned to the aging Marquis. “Uncle,” she said, “get yourself gone. It is dangerous here.”

“I'll not go, until I am certain you are safe,” Ondore countered. He addressed a parchment-white, silent Basch. “Quit this place. Take your wife to my home in Bhujerba. There you will be safe. I will meet you there as soon as I am able.”

Larsa nodded. “Mags and I will accompany you, Lady Ashe. It is far too dangerous for us to return to Archades without support. At any rate, Zargabaath leads my armies at home. He will keep peace in Archades, I am sure of it.”

“We'll keep in touch, Majesty,” said Balthier, as he nodded to Vaan and Penelo. “I will keep you abreast of any new turns of events here.”

Ashe nodded, weary beyond belief, before her hand stole to her concealed belly. Basch's brows knit in concern. “Ashe! Are you all right?”

“Stress—that's all it is, just stress.” Ashe ran one shaking palm across her temple. “We need to get to Uncle's estate. Now. I'll feel better when I'm sure he is safe.”

Basch nodded, uncertainty writ large on his countenance. Ashe shared his worry, but not for the same reason. The more she thought of it, the more she knew—she _knew!_ —that their best-kept secret was a secret no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a five-dollar word in this chapter. I'll try to 'splain.
> 
> I'm an erstwhile SCAdian from the tiny barony of An Dubhaigeainn, located in the East Kingdom (that's the New England/Tri-state/Eastern Canadian provinces area to you mundanes, wink-wink), and a little bit of SCAdian speech found its way into this chapter. So...here is the definition of this chapter's five-dollar word:
> 
> Vivat: (from the Dictionary of Difficult Words) 'may he or she live'; long live; hurrah. 
> 
> Hope that clarified a really anachronistic word. Toodles!


	4. Snowdrops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: birth scene...just a wee bit graphic.

Bhujerba was frozen, blanketed in snow and ice. 

Basch sat in the Marquis's library, shivering. Lately, he felt the cold more acutely than he ever had. The fireplace roared, and yet his bones creaked from the chill in the air. 

He held a small wooden figurine in one hand and a razor-sharp dagger in the other. It was the day before Twelfth Night, and he had to finish this project before then. He frowned at the figurine, as he swept the tip of the knife across one plane. He shivered convulsively again, and nicked his thumb.

“Damn it all,” he muttered. He sucked at the cut, and snickered. This was the last piece he needed to work on, and he'd be finished—it figured that it would give him the most trouble. _I'm rushing this,_ he thought. _You've finished the rest of the pieces here in Bhujerba over the past week now, no need to rush on the last piece, old chap. You have all the time in the world tonight. Slow and steady, and you'll be done without maiming yourself...almost there..._

He finished his task, then turned the figurine over. Ashe looked up at him from his palm. She wore her favorite samite coat, and held the Treaty Sword. Her tiny crown sat atop her rosewood head. She stood proudly on an intricately filigreed wooden plinth. 

Basch ran his finger over her carved face. He hoped Ashe liked the set of chess pieces he made for her. Some months ago, before her belly got very big, Ashe had confided to Basch that she never learned to play chess, but always wanted to. Basch was a seasoned player, and looked forward to teaching his wife the nuances of the game.

He hooked his hand under his chair, and pulled out the box of pieces he had already finished. The mellow red cedar-wood pieces were made in the likenesses of Ashe's parents and their court; the dark rosewood pieces carried the visages of Ashe, himself, their friends, and her court. He grinned, pleased with his work. 

He was glad he had the foresight to pack the little teak box into his traveling satchel, before the wedding. Before the wedding, they had packed a few things for their honeymoon. They had planned to go to a tiny villa in Archades to spend some time alone together. After the thwarted bombing, however, they were asked by Ondore to stay at his own manor. In retrospect, he was glad they accepted the Marquis's hasty invitation. He loved his wife's uncle's rambling old estate, but even more so—he loved his extensive library. He could lose himself for hours here...

The doorknob rattled once before it turned. Basch hurriedly stowed the now-finished chess piece in the box. He shoved it under his plushy chair, and grabbed a book from the coffee-table. It was open in his lap before Ashe waddled into the room. 

“Hello, darling,” said Ashe tiredly.

“Hello, love,” Basch replied. He did not look up at Ashe. It was all he could do to keep his face from splitting into a wide grin.

Ashe made her way to her favorite divan. She dropped into it with a whistling grunt. She placed her palms over the widest part of her belly, and sighed. “Basch?”

He looked up from the dusty tome that lay open and unread in his lap. His eyes danced with merriment. “Yes, Ashe?”

“We...never really discussed names for the little one, did we?” Ashe grunted again slightly. She squeezed her eyes shut momentarily, and continued. “Not at length, anyway.”

He cocked his elbow on the arm of his chair, and dropped his chin into his palm. “Of course we did. If the baby is a girl, we will name her for my mother and my aunt.” He lowered his head, and peered at her through his eyelashes. Ashe was far too wan...“Why?”

The corner of Ashe's mouth twitched. “This baby will not be saddled with a name like Deorwynn Marta, if you please. If you think I'll allow that, you have another think coming.”

Basch's eyebrow quirked, his concern for Ashe's pallid countenance momentarily forgotten. “Are you poking fun at the womenfolk in my family, Highness?”

“I'm not 'poking fun' at your mother and aunt, Basch...I'm cringing away from those names.” Ashe shifted uncomfortably on her divan. “What does it mean, anyway...the name Deorwynn?”

Basch smiled faintly. “'Dear delight'. Why?”

Ashe shuddered. “Gods...that sounds like what you'd name the heroine in a romance novel...”

Indignant, Basch snapped the book shut. “You _are_ poking fun at my mother!” He laughed again. “And what if it is a boy?”

Ashe pursed her lips. “We can name him after you...”

Basch made a _moue._ “Gods forbid. I learned to like my name, but it took quite a while.”

“How long did it take?” Ashe rhythmically rubbed her belly, to soothe the ache there. 

“About thirty years, give or take a year or so,” said Basch, winking. “In truth, I can't remember.”

Ashe threw a pillow at him, laughing. “Fine, buffoon. How about Idris?” 

“You'd like us to name the child after your eldest brother?” Basch nodded once. “That's a noble gesture. What does it mean?”

“Erm...” Ashe crimsoned slightly. “it means 'prince', actually.”

_“Prince?”_ Basch slid another book from the shelf. “Your brother's name was Prince Prince?”

Ashe made an exasperated noise. “It's a very noble name...”

“Princely, actually,” said Basch with a derisive snort. He glanced out the window. Snow began to fall. Basch felt a small pang of homesickness. Valendia's winters were always white, and Landis—Gods, Yuletide in Landis was heaven on earth. He thought of what happened to Valendia, and Landis, and his little house on the hill, and the pang grew until it squeezed his heart painfully.

He turned his body fully to the picture-window and watched the snow fall. He suddenly remembered, with total recall, one of his earliest memories. He and Noah weren't much older than two, and the little hamlet where their family lived had been blanketed with nearly a foot of fine, fluffy snow. After the storm had abated, his mother had taken him and Noah outside to play. He remembered, with a smile, how their mother had told them they looked like a pair of powdered Linzer tarts...and when they reluctantly dragged themselves inside, powdered from head to foot in the stuff, their mother had laughed merrily and called them in her native tongue...

“Snowdrops,” said Basch aloud. Their father may have lived his entire life in Landis, but their mother was Archadian-born. She frequently used words that her little Valendian-born sons never really understood. Noah—inquisitive as he always was—asked her what she meant when she used those difficult words, and she has told them they looked like little snowdrops. 

He addressed his wife without turning from the window. “Ashe? If the baby is a girl...do you like the name Eirlys?”

Ashe blinked. “That is a lovely name. I like that.” She ran her fingers through her hair distractedly. “Why the change of heart, Basch? I thought you wanted to name the baby after your mother and aunt. What changed your mind?”

He turned to her. “That name comes from an old, old memory I have of my mother.”

Ashe tilted her head to one side. “All right. If it is a girl, we shall name her Eirlys. If it is a boy, we name him Basch. Is that acceptable, Prince Consort-Judge Magister-Duke Noah Gabranth-fon Ronsenburg?”

“I suppose so,” said Basch nonchalantly. A warmth bloomed in his chest. He would never tell Ashe, but Basch was secretly quite pleased with the notion that his son would share his name...even if Basch himself could never use it publicly again. 

Smiling to himself, he flipped the book he chose, spine-out, and started at the title. It seemed that even Ondore wasn't below reading children's fairy-tales—the Marquis had an ancient copy of _The Book of Orgain-Cent_ in his extensive library. Basch blew years of dust off the cover, sat himself, and flipped to the title-leaf. His delighted grin mellowed when he read what was written there.

_Halim,_

_This book is not only for you. It is for your new niece. You'll need something to read to her, yes?_

_Raminas_

Without looking at his wife, he said, “The Marquis...he read to you from _The Book of Orgain-Cent_ , Ashe?”

A jolt of pain ripped through Ashe. She bit down on the yelp of agony, lest she give Basch the fright of his life. “Yes. Did you find it?”

He bobbed his head slightly. “I did. This book and I shared many adventures together when I was a child. I daydreamed I was the Knight that Felled a Thousand Foes. Noah poked fun at me regularly because of it.”

“Mm-hmm. That was my favorite as well.” Ashe grimaced again. “My governess would pooh-pooh when I would say I wanted to _be_ the knight-commoner, rather than marry him.”

He stood, and advanced on his wife's divan, smirking. “But you _did_ marry him.”

“Yes, and that's— _UUHNGH!”_ This time, Ashe could not bite back the cry of agony. As Basch rushed to her side, Ashe doubled over as another contraction began. 

Utterly nonplussed, Basch did the only thing he could think to do—he ran for the chamber door and called for help. _“MAGS!_ It's time! I need a bit of help here!”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Lady Marguerite frowned slightly. “You had another month, Queen Ashelia. Technically speaking, you are full-term. You should be fine, but a bit of caution is called for.”

Another contraction twisted her gut, and a dazzling spray of pain settled over her. She grabbed the nearest thing at hand—namely Basch's forearm—and squeezed until tendons stood out on her wrist. “Basch—it's too early! I'm not ready for this!”

“Be that as it may, the little one _is,_ ” grunted Basch. He patted her hand. “Mags knows much about childbirth. If she says all will be well, it will be. 'Twill be all right, Ashe.”

She bared her teeth at her husband. _“Go to hell!”_

“Charming,” said Mags. “Her Majesty is as poised as ever...”

Ashe whipped her head around, and glared at Marguerite. “Don't make me have to kill you. Brat.”

Mags sniggered. “Hollow threat, Highness. And relax—all really _is_ well. The baby will be fine...and so will you. Do not waste your energy on this. You have other things more pressing.” Mags circled to the foot of the bed, and leaned on the mattress with her forearms. She tilted her head to one side. “Hmm...not as pressing as I thought.”

“And just what in the nine Hells is _that_ supposed to mean?” Ashe began to pant. “It feels like someone is wringing me. Do you mean to tell me that nothing is happening...nothing at all?”

“No, Ashelia. That is not quite true. There is _plenty_ happening to you right now.” Mags pressed her lips together pensively. “What I meant was that there is no sign of the baby yet.”

“Ought there be?” Basch voiced a rather un-manly squeak as Ashe mashed his fingers together. “She has been in labor for hours. Shouldn't there be _something?”_

“Well,” said Mags, “you can always move things along, Sir Knight. There is an old-wives tale that says if you and she...”

Basch paled. “Absolutely not! I'll not do that to Ashe...never again!”

Mags blinked at this cryptic remark. “Good grief, how in the world do you think the baby got there in the first place? Magick?”

“You wouldn't under...understand,” panted Ashe. “How do you know so much about childbirth? You are fifteen, and have not borne any children yet.”

Mags puffed herself up proudly. “I have served as midwife to all my older sisters, and to three of my aunts. I know many things regarding childbirth.” She lowered herself to her elbows again, tucked the hem of Ashe's gown around her knees, and examined Ashe. “Your body is fully ready to birth the little one. It is all a waiting game, now. But I must ask you—this is not your first, is it?”

The expectant couple shook their heads in unison. “We lost one child to the Plague, Marguerite,” said Basch slowly. Ashe cried out as another contraction rocked her frame. “Before I came back to Archades to heal you and Larsa, she and I buried our first child—a girl.”

“Forgive me. I did not know.” Mags touched the tips of her fingers to her heart. “I only meant to emphasize that a woman's second child is usually born faster than a woman's first.”

In response to that, Ashe's body suddenly bent into a bow. She screeched, and began to bleed feebly.

Basch took one look at the drops of blood on the sheet between Ashe's legs, and rocked unsteadily on his feet. The color dropped from his face, until it resembled an old dishrag. He pointed one shaking finger at that crimson smear. “Wh—what in the world _is_ that? Is she in danger, Lady Mags?”

“Ah...bloody show,” said Mags with a satisfied nod. “About time, too.”

_“Gods! It's tearing me up inside!”_ Ashe bent herself double. _“I'm dying!” ___

“Mags...?” Basch swept one shaking hand across his sweaty brow. “ _Is_ she dying?” 

“I thought you said you've given birth before, Ashe. Why is your husband acting so foolish?” Mags worried her lip. “If you cannot help here, Sir Knight, I suggest you leave us. I can handle this...” 

“No!” He sat on the edge of the mattress, and wrapped his arm around Ashe's trembling shoulders. “I'll stay.” 

Mags shrugged noncommittally. “Suit yourself...but if you get in the way, I _will_ throw you out!” 

“Done,” said Basch, as Ashe grunted again, more insistently. 

Mags, ever the good midwife, examined Ashe again. “Well...it seems that the little one is finally ready...” 

“Good,” said Ashe, before another contraction caught the breath in her lungs. Her mouth and eyes flew wide open, and tiny squeaking noises emanated from her trembling lips as the baby began to crown. As the contraction passed, the top of the baby's head retreated. Ashe's poleaxed expression did not change, however, as she glanced up at Basch. He stroked her head, and held her hand...until Ashe's expression changed dramatically. He blinked at the unmitigated hate in his wife's eyes, and addressed Mags. 

“Lady Mags,” said Basch, “Is this normal?” 

Mags looked up, and smiled mirthlessly. “Very. I suggest you defend yourself, Sir Knight.” 

_“What?”_ Basch glanced down at Ashe, just as she cocked her fist and punched him squarely in the mouth. Her hands were small and soft, but to Basch it felt as if she hit him with a brick. His hand flew to his cracked, bleeding lower lip. “Ashe? What in the _world...?”_

Ashe grabbed his hair, and pulled his face close to hers. _“This is YOUR doing! I ought to kill you!”_ A contraction ripped through Ashe, and she screeched savagely. “I'm dying...I'm _dying!”_

“Oh, _enough_ , Queen Ashelia,” said Mags. “You are not dying. A few more good pushes and the baby will be here.” She glared at Basch. “Encourage your wife, if you please.” 

He cringed a bit, expecting another blow from Ashelia. “Erm...push?” 

Instead of striking Basch, Ashe grabbed his hand. “Help me, Basch...help me up.” 

Nonplussed, Basch darted a glance at Mags. “What does she mean...?” 

Mags rolled her eyes as she shook her head. “If she wants to squat, Sir Knight, then let her. Gravity works well in this situation. Help her to her feet.” 

He did so. Ashe planted her feet on the mattress, and brought her knees close to her chest. “Keep me steady, Basch.” 

“I will, love.” He knelt on the bed, behind Ashe, and wrapped his arms around her belly. She dropped her head until her chin touched her chest. She voiced a guttural, trembling moan, as Mags touched her cocked knee. 

“Good, Highness! The baby has crowned. Almost finished!” Mags looked at Basch. “The little one is almost here! Help your wife, good Sir Knight!” 

Basch buried his face in Ashe's wealth of fine blond hair, and whispered encouragement. “You are so strong, Ashe...so brave. We're almost done. One more time, Ashe. Just a bit more...” 

Ashe grasped his hand, as she pushed one more time. Together, they watched their child enter the world. Ashe burst into tears when she heard her baby's first whooping cries. 

Mags deftly went through the mechanics of her craft, as Basch gently lowered Ashe to the bed. Mags cut the baby free from Ashe, cleaned and swaddled the infant, and handed Ashe her new child. “Your daughter, Highness.” 

“Eirlys, Lady Marguerite,” said Ashe through a curtain of relieved tears. She caught her husband's broken mouth with hers, and kissed him lingeringly. “Her name is Eirlys.” 

-=-=-=-=-=- 

The next morning dawned bright and cold. Ashe and Basch woke for what seemed like the fifth time that night to the sound of Eirlys's hungry wails. Ashe made to get up, but Basch held her back. “I'll get her. Rest a bit.” 

She nodded in acquiescence as Basch went to fetch the baby. He returned with Eirlys, and deposited her gently in Ashe's waiting arms. As Ashe clumsily nursed Eirlys, Basch kissed Ashe's forehead, stroked Eirlys's back, and then left the room to retrieve Ashe's Yule present. 

When he returned, Ashe dozed fitfully as Eirlys slept in her arms. He placed the box of chess pieces on the floor at the foot of the bed. He circled the bed and climbed in. He gazed in wonder at the tiny marvel he was co-author of, and smiled. 

Oh, Eirlys looked achingly like Hope did. She shared her deceased older sister's countenance, her coloring, everything...and like Hope, Eirlys looked just like him. He felt a warm surge of pride for his daughter, deep in the pit of his belly. 

The sound of his wife's voice shook him from his reverie. “What's in the box, Darling?” 

“Your Yule present, Ashe,” replied Basch. “I made them especially for you.” 

She smiled, and held the baby out to Basch. “Hold her while I open my present?” 

“Of course.” He took Eirlys, and placed her in the valley between his head and shoulder. Eirlys fussed for a bit, before she settled against his chest. He smiled at Ashe as she slowly got out of bed to get the box. 

She climbed back to her spot, and opened the box. She gasped when she saw the chess set. “Oh! They're beautiful!” 

“I'm glad you like it.” 

Ashe picked one of the pieces out of the fine rosewood box, and laughed. “Why did you make yourself look so...angry?” 

He glanced at the piece with his tiny visage on it, and chuckled. “He's not angry...just stoic.” 

Ashe giggled, as he studied the piece. His chess piece didn't wear a crown—instead, it wore a fine circlet 'round its head. It was clothed in Gabranth's armor. Its horned helmet sat at his tiny doppelganger's feet. The tiny Gabranth brandished Basch's old broadsword, Save the Queen. Balthier had once jokingly given the sword its name, and it had stuck. 

“You brought this with you, to give to me on our honeymoon?” Ashe smiled fondly. 

“Yes...but it wasn't finished until last night. I've carried that tiny box in my rucksack for months. You've no idea how heavy that silly thing was to carry it everywhere.” Basch cleared his throat. “I almost made my piece a knight,” Basch reflected. “I changed my mind at the last moment.” 

“I'm glad you did,” said Ashe. “I would have been cross with you if you had done that.” She touched the tiny face of the King-piece. “It is beautiful. Thank you.” 

She kissed Basch, lingeringly. After they parted, Ashe gazed at her hands. Basch crooked one eyebrow. “What is it?” 

“I...don't have a gift for you. I was so caught up in the wedding, and politics as of late, and...I'm sorry, Basch.” 

“What are you sorry for?” He touched his wife's cheek. He lowered Eirlys to the crook of his elbow, and gazed at his daughter. “You brought your gift to me without being aware of it. 

“This is the best gift I've ever received.” 


	5. Coup

Chapter 4: Coup

The Marquis returned to Bhujerba the day after Eirlys was born. The moment he arrived at the Manor, he strode to his sitting room. Ashe, Basch, and Larsa sat around his fine oaken table. As Ondore hung his cloak, the room's other inhabitants rose to greet him. Ashe was most pleased to see the aging Marquis. She feared for his life when he remained in Rabanastre after the wedding.

Ondore approached the table amidst a hail of greetings. He glanced sidelong at Ashe. With no preamble whatsoever, he said, “May I see her, Ashelia?”

When Ashe's eyebrows vaulted to her hairline, Ondore smiled thinly. “The baby. I'd like to see my new grand-niece.”

Stunned beyond words, Ashe fetched Eirlys. She returned with the squalling infant, and proudly deposited her into Ondore's waiting arms. “She is Eirlys, Uncle Halim.”

He cradled the baby. “What a lovely name. Congratulations are in order, Ashelia,” he said. He glanced at Basch, and one silvery eyebrow quirked up. “She resembles her father, methinks.”

Basch swelled with pride. “She does, doesn't she?” His gamine grin evaporated after a moment. He frowned bemusedly at his wife's kin. “How did you know Eirlys was born, Ondore? We didn't expect her arrival for another month. How did _you_ find out?”

“The young Emperor sent word to Archades, and my contacts sent word to me in Rabanastre. I stay atop current events at all costs.” Ondore rested Eirlys against his shoulder, bounced lightly on his toes, and patted the baby's back with infinite gentleness. Eirlys quieted at last, and Ondore nodded once. “Having said that, I also have some interesting news for you, Emperor Larsa.”

“The Rozarrian coup?” Larsa crossed his arms. “They made it to my country's borders...didn't they. What came of it?”

Ondore sat himself at his desk. With his free hand, he lay an inkwell, pen, and a scrap of parchment before him. He quickly sketched out the Archadian borders, and made tiny circles around its edges. He tapped the loops, one by one “The Rozarrian troops stationed themselves here, at Archadia's Western borders. They attacked at dawn.”

Larsa paled. “I should have gone straight away to the Imperial Compound. It was foolish to come here.”

Ondore put up his palm. “Fear not, Emperor Larsa. Lord Zargabaath was in command of your elite troops. Through his spies, Zargabaath was able to ascertain when the Rozarrians would move. He had stationed his battalion at the Western border before the invasion began. When Rozarria advanced, Zargabaath and a regiment of his best men lay in wait for them.” Ondore flashed his teeth in a hard smile. “The Rozarrians were annihilated.”

“Nothing I didn't expect,” said Basch, nodding. “Zargabaath's troops took care of things, did they?” He rested his hands on his hips, and worried his lip. His eyes wandered to the far side of the room as he thought deeply. “It almost sounds too good to be true.”

“It _is_ too good to be true, Basch. It isn't over yet,” said Ondore sourly. “If you think this is the end of the Rozarrian coup, you are sorely mistaken. They have retreated, and will regroup. Archades may not be their next target, but Rozarria _will_ attack again.”

Basch scowled at his feet before he gestured with his hands. “I don't like this guessing game, Halim. We need an edge against the Rozarrian threat.”

As Basch spoke these words, the chamber door opened. A familiar face emerged. “You do. You have me.”

Larsa brightened. “Al-Cid! What news do you have from Rozarria?”

“I am here to report that Rozarria has issued a full retreat to all of Her troops. The Rozarrian threat has, for now, been neutralized.”

“Thank the Makers,” breathed Larsa. “We mustn't let our guard down for one second. They will find another target eventually, and then they will strike.”

“You will hear from me whenever there is a change in this situation,” said Al-Cid. “You have my word-bond.”

Basch crossed his arms. “You are a turncoat to your own people. What guarantee do we have that you are not going to switch allegiance on us as well?”

Thunderclouds materialized in Al-Cid's gaze. “I have my reasons. Something dear was taken from me.”

“Your 'bird', my Lord?” Basch made an unconscious _moue_. “You did this simply because of your feelings for the leader of your...harem? I find that difficult to believe...”

“Janella is dead,” said Al-Cid, a note of warning in his voice. “Instead of a public beating, my father ordered her execution.”

Ashe blinked once, as her face crumpled in sorrow. “My Gods. I am sorry for that.”

Al-Cid waved her commiseration away. “It is because of her death that I will help you, and Dalmasca. My family has become drunk with power, and has their sights set on world domination. I cannot allow that.” The swarthy playboy drew a deep breath. “I will keep my own little sister safe from that tyranny...with my life, if I must.”

As if Al-Cid's words conjured her form thin air, Mags entered the room. “Allie!” Surprised and delighted by her brother's arrival, she ran to Al-Cid and leapt into his arms. “You are safe! My heart soars.”

“Your dear face is a mote of light in the darkness, little one,” replied Al-Cid. “You will stay here with your intended but for a few more days. You and the Little Lord will return to Archades before the week ends.”

“Brother?” Mags's eyes misted over. “I heard what you said just now. Is it true...about Janella?”

He gazed at his boot-tops. “It is, little one. She is dead.”

She hung her head and wept. He stroked her hair with infinite gentleness, but his eyes were half a world away...in Rozarria, where the body of his favorite concubine lay under the cold earth.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Later that week, as Larsa and Marguerite readied themselves for their trek to Archades, Balthier arrived in Bhujerba. He arrived alone again.

“Thank goodness you are well,” said Ashe, as she approached Balthier and touched his arm. “Is everyone else all right in Rabanastre?”

“Relatively speaking, yes.” said Balthier with a shrug. “The tumult died down over that walking Rozarrian time-bomb a week ago. Your chemists were able to detach the bomb from the Rozarrian's corpse, and dissect the bomb. It was an ancient device...the scientists were in agreement that it might not have gone off at all.”

“Be that as it may,” said Ashe pensively, “I'm happy we didn't have to test that theory.”

“About that,” said Balthier, “I was told that you are cross with me, Ashelia. I wanted to apologize to you for disregarding your orders. I wasn't going to obey you anyway, mind—but angering you was the furthest thing from my mind.”

“I'm not as angry as you think. You saved hundreds—no, _thousands_ —of people with one shot from _Fomalhaut_ , Balthier,” said Ashe warmly. “All it took was direct disobedience of a Royal Decree.”

“The day I leave my arquebus behind, my Queen, is the day you wind me in my burial shroud.” Balthier bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Fran warned me not to disobey you, Lady Ashe. I don't obey _her_ , either.”

Ashe mock-scowled at Balthier. “Good thing, too. By the way...where _is_ Fran? She wasn't at the ceremony, either. I meant to ask...”

Balthier's smirk slid from his face. “Gota.”

When Ashe shook her head in confusion, Balthier cleared his throat. “She's with Gota. Her mate.”

“Oh.” Ashe spread her hands in commiseration.

Balthier waved her concern away. “I knew it would come to this, since the last time we were in Eruyt. Fran told me she would seek out Gota when her time had come around.”

Ashe nodded in sudden remembrance. It seemed like a whole lifetime ago. After their triumph over the Great Plague, Fran mentioned Gota in passing. She remembered how Fran's countenance turned to stone whenever she mentioned her mate's name. But what stuck most in Ashe's mind was the tiny mote of wistfulness that crept into Fran's voice when she spoke of Gota, and how stricken Balthier looked when she did.

“I know next to nothing about the Viera and their customs,” said Basch. “What will happen when the baby is born? Where will she go? What about Fran? Is she still unwelcome in Eruyt?”

“I have no idea where she's going,” said Balthier testily. “I know for certain that Fran is still unwelcome in her Village, but they have given her the option to come back for the baby's birth. After that, Fran will be free to go...with or without the child.”

“What does Fran want to do?” Basch crossed his arms. “Has anyone asked Fran's opinion?”

Balthier rolled his eyes. “Of course I did. She is, as always, tight-lipped about her business. She'll keep her own counsel.”

“I'm sorry,” said Basch. “If we can help in any way...”

“I know,” said Balthier. He clapped Basch's shoulder. “I'll keep that in mind. As it stands, though, Fran will do whatever she wants in this situation. The child is not mine. I have no say.”

Ashe gazed at Balthier frankly. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, Highness—I do.” Balthier glanced towards the nursery, where Eirlys began wailing thinly.

Ashe excused herself. “Lyssa needs me. I'll be back.”

Balthier watched her go. When she was out of earshot, Balthier made an exasperated noise in his throat. “Why is it that everyone thinks I have a say in the upbringing of Fran's child? I have as much hold on Fran as she does on me,” he said to Basch. “She is my partner—my friend—and nothing more.”

“Ashe is my friend, too,” said Basch, his eyes dancing. “My closest friend, as a matter of fact.”

“That is neither here nor there, Captain,” said Balthier angrily. “What I meant to say is the child is not mine, and I shall have no hand in its upbringing. It's a good thing it isn't mine, to be sure.” He shuddered.

“Why? It ought not make a difference who the father is,” said Basch. “Why is it good that the child will not be yours?”

Balthier sat himself in Ashe's vacated chair. “There is a myth in the Vieran pool of knowledge. Legend speaks of a Hume man that wed a Viera, and had offspring. The get of this marriage had blond hair, and shorter ears than a normal Viera. They were pale skinned.” Balthier shrugged uncomfortably. “They were aberrations. Outcast. They were thrust from the Wood, never to return.”

“Monstrous,” said Basch. “I will never understand the Viera. They adhere unwaveringly to the unspoken laws of their Wood, and yet they are the most narrow-minded peoples I have ever encountered when it comes to anyone that aren't Viera.”

“You are being needlessly hard on them, Captain,” said Balthier dryly. “We all have foibles...you included. Never forget that _you_ are a living a lie.”

Basch's face became stony. “Funny, that—coming from a pirate.”

Balthier's eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to voice a biting retort, but silenced himself when he heard Ashe approach.

Heralded by Eirlys's ear-shattering cries, Ashe stepped into the parlor, Eirlys (and a double-handful of her accessories) in tow. Larsa and Mags followed Ashe in the parlor for tea. Ashe seated herself, and patted the baby's back to still her pained yowls. The little one continued to cry.

Mags made a small sound of commiseration. “Colicky?”

Ashe nodded ruefully. “It must be so hard to be a baby. She hasn't stopped crying all week, it seems.”

“It will pass, Lady Ashe.” Mags linked her hands behind her back, and strolled over to the Queen. “If it is any consolation, colic abates after the third month or so.”

Ashe rolled her eyes. “That's comforting. Cold comfort, true—but comforting, nonetheless.” She grimaced, and glanced around to Larsa. “Are you ready for your trek, Lord Larsa?”

Larsa calmly regarded the still-screaming Eirlys, and sipped his tea. “We are ready, Lady Ashe. I wished to make certain you and the babe were safe before we left for home. I am glad you both are well.”

“Thanks to a certain disobedient ex-judge I know,” said Ashe. She juggled Eirlys, her receiving blanket, and her rattle. Aggravated, she threw the rattle to the table. Mags stood and approached Ashe.

“Allow me, Highness,” she said, and held her hands out for the infant. Ashe nodded her thanks, as she handed the baby to her midwife. Mags cradled the infant professionally, cooing nonsensical words to Eirlys.

Larsa smiled warmly at Mags. “I'll have no worries when we have children,” said he, before his face blazed a violent crimson. “Erm, what I mean to say...you and I...uh...”

“My Lord,” said Mags sardonically, “I am fully aware what will happen to me when we lay together—perhaps I will catch pregnant the first time, but it might not happen until the second time...or the third...”

“Mags!” Larsa turned purple.

“Larsa, you are being childish,” said Mags, as she rhythmically rocked Eirlys. She glanced at Basch, and tipped him a wink.

“Never once have I encountered a fifteen year old that acted as if she were forty,” said Basch. He tilted his head to one side, considering, and gave his wife an acerbic stare. “Save once, mind.”

Ashe stuck her tongue out at her husband, and Basch scratched at his cheek, attempting to hide his smile without much luck.

Larsa attempted to regain his composure. “Lady Ashe? I'd like to give you your wedding present...a bit late, but better late than never.”

Ashe laughed merrily. “You know you don't have to do that. What do Basch and I need, honestly, that we don't already have?”

Larsa sipped his tea again. “Each other.”

Basch frowned. “What are you saying, Lord Larsa?”

“Your wedding present is intangible, Ashelia,” said Larsa, ignoring Basch. “I give you your husband. I release him from his oath-bond.”

“You cannot _do_ that, Lord Larsa,” said Basch quickly. “I am bound by my oath...”

“Bother your oath. I am seventeen years old, and capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much. I will be married in eighteen months. I understand your oath, and I respect it...but I release you from it anyway. I have other things to worry about now besides you.” He reached out to Mags, and lovingly caressed her hip. “There are other people that occupy my thoughts now.”

Basch puffed up indignantly. “It was _I_ that worried about _you_ , Lord Larsa!”

“You worry too much, friend,” said Larsa. He rose. “As of right now, I do not expect you to take one step into Archades until the wedding. And Ashe,” he finished, “I expect you to keep him home, no matter what. Chain him to the wall, if you must.”

“The good Captain certainly needs the holiday, at the very least,” said Balthier. He scowled at Basch. Basch narrowed his eyes at his friend, and stormed from the room with nary a word of leave. It was what Balthier hoped Basch would do. He looked at Ashe steadily.

“I'm sorry I had to do that. There was something else I needed to speak to you about, Highness,” he said. “Your people are a-buzz with a rather unsettling rumor. Word has spread throughout Rabanastre that Basch is the Kingslayer.”

Ashe blanched. “I knew it. Damn it all!” She curled her hand into a fist, and pounded the stout oaken table. All that she had done...the intricately-wrought web was unraveling. “What is the word on the streets?”

“Vaan has kept his ear to the ground, listening to the whispers...or rather, Dalan has. Vaan has been sticking his nose into barroom arguments and street conversations.” Balthier puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled sharply. “The general consensus is that your husband is Lord Noah Gabranth, the victim of a vicious rumor spawned by the miscreant Rozarrians, meant to discredit you both. But...”

Ashe crossed her arms, clasping her elbows. “But...”

“The whispers tell a different tale, don't they?” Larsa exchanged a worried look with Balthier. “The ones that do not wish to be publicly known are whispering into the right ears...they believe the Kingslayer walks Ivalice.”

“Exactly.” Balthier crossed the room to Ashe, and touched her shoulder. “Retirement from Archades might not be what Basch wants, but it is what's necessary now. It is best that Basch be kept out of public view until you can figure out a way to discredit the naysayers.”

“You're right, but...how do I go about doing that?” She glanced at her tiny infant daughter. Eirlys slept in Lady Mags's arms. If this played out the way she feared it would, would her daughter be denounced as the Kingslayer's bastard?

-=-=-=-=-=-

The next morning, everyone departed via the Aerodrome for their own homes. As Basch loaded their small, nondescript craft with their meager belongings, Balthier harrumphed behind him. “I need to speak to you.”

Without meeting his direct gaze, Basch continued to pack the vehicle. “What about?”

“I did not mean to insult you yesterday evening, Captain. I needed to speak to Ashe...”

“About my status as the Dread Kingslayer.” Basch wheeled on Balthier. His voice rose unsteadily. “You did not have to humiliate me. I knew all about it. I have eyes and ears...I saw my people's reaction when the damned Rozarrian used that abhorrent name.” He cocked his elbow on the ship's hatch, and regarded Balthier dryly. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I am,” said Balthier, completely unnerved. “Why do you think otherwise?”

“Friends trust each other,” said Basch. “The next time you need to inform my wife of some earth-shattering news—especially if it is in regards to me—I hope you can trust me enough to tell me as well. It's not as if I was going to fly into a rage and tear you into strips, Balthier!”

“Right.” Balthier nodded, and held his hand out to Basch. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings, Polly Prissy-Pants.”

Basch snorted surprised laughter, and enveloped his friend's hand in his. He grasped his forearm with his free hand. “Keep in touch with us, Balthier,” said Basch. “The Queen would be vexed with you if you make yourself scarce.”

“I shall do my best to accommodate the Queen. Until next time,” said Balthier. He turned and walked towards the Strahl, waving over his shoulder.

Basch nodded to himself, and finished loading the ship. He wondered just how true Balthier's promise was...just how long would it be until their comrades became but a mere memory? When would he and Ashe refer to their friendships in the past tense? He had a sudden realization—if it meant never seeing his friends again, he would trade every ounce of their warm company for a bit of peace in his life. He resigned himself, at that very moment, to the idea that he would never see Penelo dance ever again...or hear another wisdom-filled story of the Wood and Eruyt from Fran...or watch Balthier preen like a bantam rooster for no apparent reason...

Basch knew in his heart that they would never see their friends again.

How little he knew.

-=-=-=-=-=-

For the next eighteen months, Basch's new life as a nonentity swallowed him whole. His daughter went a long way towards filling the void his life had become, and Basch delightedly watched Eirlys grow. She was a precocious child. She learned to walk early, and soon after learned to speak. Eirlys was the apple of Basch's eye. As soon as Eirlys was old enough (which, of course, wasn't nearly old enough in Ashe's opinion), he took her out on chocobo rides. Their old chocobo Jenny adored Eirlys, and enjoyed their rides as much as the tiny Princess did. He began to teach her to speak a few words in Valendian—already considered a dead language—and she accompanied him when he went a-hunting for Giza rabbits. Granted, they weren't much of a challenge, as they would more often than not walk up to them, but Eirlys loved cuddling the bunnies when they allowed her to.

Ashe watched her daughter with thinly veiled pride. Eirlys had a streak of purest steel in her personality. Ashe reckoned that her daughter would make a fine Queen one day. As soon as she was able, she taught Eirlys how to carry herself like royalty. She knew it ran opposite with Basch's 'education', but it mattered not, not in the end. She would not keep Basch from enjoying Eirlys's babyhood, any more than he would keep the child from learning the fine art of poise and grace.

Despite the battalions of nursemaids and nannies and governesses at their disposal, Basch and Ashe refused to let anyone besides themselves raise Eirlys. They would not take advantage of that—the ease of letting someone else care for what they considered a gift from the Gods.

They had but eighteen months to enjoy being parents. The week before Eirlys turned a year and a half old, and one month before the Imperial Wedding, Rozarria made its move.

-=-=-=-=-=-

There _were_ days Basch wished he could let one of Eirlys's nannies take over for him. Since his recent retirement from Archades, care of his little daughter often fell to his hands. And there were times—like now, actually—that he wished he was still in Archades.

Eirlys brought her tiny fists down on her tabletop. “No!”

The tiny spoon in Basch's hand drooped a bit. He rolled his eyes shut. He was at patience's end. “Lyssa, eat it. I am not playing games with you anymore.”

“No! No-no no- _NO!”_ She swept at her bowl, and it flew off her chair's tabletop. Basch wore half the contents. It was some vile paste that even he wouldn't eat, even if he was starved. He knew, unfortunately, what the gunk splashed on his new sark tasted like. Once, in an effort to tempt Eirlys to eat, he popped her spoon into his own mouth. He had nearly retched on the poor girl's head.

Eirlys's face pinched, and it began to turn an alarming shade of scarlet.

“Oh, no,” said Basch. “Please don't...”

“ _Bwaaaaahh!”_ Eirlys kicked her legs savagely, and caught Basch under his chin. He grunted once.

“Gods help me,” he sighed, as Eirlys continued with her meltdown. He settled himself for a long, uncomfortable, head-splitting morning. Ashe told him, in situations like this, to let Eirlys have her tantrum...that it would play out on its own. Experience reminded him, however, that his daughter's tantrums could last hours.

Someone harrumphed, embarrassed, in the doorway of the dining room. Basch looked up from his screeching daughter. His gaze was as hard and sharp as sapphires. “What is it _now_?”

“Forgive me for interrupting, Lord Gabranth,” said the courier. “I have urgent news for you and Her Royal Highness.”

Basch immediately reached for the bell-pull that would alert Ashe. They had devised the bell system when Eirlys was still new; it came in handy when either Ashe or Basch still felt clumsy and addle-brained alone with their infant daughter. Now that they needed each other less and less for assistance with Eirlys's upbringing, the bell-pulls functioned as an alert to anywhere in the castle, to anyone they wished. It was ten times more efficient than a sprinting page, and Ashe prided herself on the idea.

A deep, rich _bong_ resonated through the stone walls. Eirlys immediately ceased her yowls, and clapped excitedly. “ _Binnnng! Biiinnnng!_ Mama!”

“That's right, Lyssa. Very good, sweetheart,” said Basch. He heaved a sigh of relief. He was grateful for anything that caused Eirlys to forget about having her tantrum. “Mama is on her way.” _Thank Gods for that,_ he thought to himself.

Ten minutes later, Ashe swept into the room. “What is it?”

Basch nodded to the courier. “We have urgent news, Milady.”

She turned to the courier. “What news?”

The courier licked his lips nervously. He blurted, “Rozarria has sacked Mount Bur-Omisace.”

“ _What?”_ Basch leapt from his chair so suddenly that it tipped over. It made a deafening crunching sound as the chair-back splintered against the wall behind it. Eirlys began to bawl again. Basch advanced on the courier. “You could have said something the moment you arrived, you little _fool!”_

“Forgive me, K—Lord Gabranth!” The courier backpedaled towards the doorway, his hands over his traitorous mouth. Basch knew what the half-wit was about to say. _Kingslayer_. Since the outburst at their own double-cursed wedding, the people of Dalmasca—every single _one_ of them _,_ Gods _damn_ it!—saw him for what that raving, walking time-bomb called him. The Gods-damned Kingslayer. No longer did they see him as a humanitarian, or the bringer of healing, or their Queen's Prince Consort. They saw him as the true author of their miseries from the very start.

He would have followed the hapless courier through the doorway, and into the hall, if he had to—and in his present state of mind, he might have beaten the poor, addle-brained boy senseless—if it weren't for his wife's restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Would it have made any difference _when_ he told you, Noah? Bur-Omisace has still been sacked, no matter if he told you now or when he first arrived!” The corner of Ashe's lips quirked when she used his assumed name, and then pressed her fingers to her rounding stomach with a grimace. She forced herself to continue, and wheeled on the terrified boy. “Who sent this information?”

“Al-Cid Margrace, Queen Ashelia,” said the now-trembling courier. “He asks for an audience with you tonight, Your Majesty.”

“So be it,” said Ashe. “Relay the message that I will be awaiting his presence, post-haste!”

After the courier left at a sprint, Ashe advanced on Basch. “What ails you? You need to calm down...”

“I _am_ calm. I will be fine,” said Basch.

“You shouldn't take to heart what some dull-witted page said, Basch,” whispered Ashe, as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Her thickening belly pressed against his. “Relax yourself, darling. We will get to the bottom of this...all right?”

He nodded silently. He couldn't say anything. What could he say? Their secret was out...everyone knew who he was. He could almost hear their whispers, see their accusing, pointing fingers. Rozarria made good on their promise to usurp all power in Ivalice if they continued their ruse...so it was no one's fault but their own that Rozarria attacked Bur-Omisace. One small, nagging thought worried Basch. When would Rozarria's next target be their home? When would Rozarria invade Dalmasca? And if Rozarria _did_ invade—and Rozarria was poised to do _just_ that—would Rabanastre be spared the horrors of war?


	6. Truth and Lies

Archades was under martial law.

The Imperial wedding of Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor to Lady Marguerite Alandra Margrace would not be open to the public. The general populace raised an uproar over this fact, but there was little they could do about it. The day before the wedding, Larsa himself gave a public apology for exempting his people from the festivities.

Larsa gaze rested on the gathered populace. “People of Archades...We have decided, in light of recent events, to close Our wedding to the public.” A sound much like an angry comber washed over him, and he hung his head sadly. 

“Please forgive Our decision. We came to that conclusion in order to keep you safe from harm. There is no guarantee that Our wedding will be free from danger. Even as Archades is under martial law, there is still an element of peril. 

“Our first concern is for you, my people. If We must be wed to the Lady Mag—Marguerite in an empty chapel, then We will do so, if it ensures that all of my peoples are kept safe. Archades, We implore you...forgive your Emperor for this breach of etiquette.”

Ashe stood inside the glass double-doors hidden from Larsa's balustrade. Basch was at her side. They grinned at each other. The gathered throng of Archadians didn't catch Larsa's mild slip, but they certainly did. Mags appeared next to Basch. “He almost called me Mags, didn't he?”

“Yes, he did,” said Basch mildly. “He caught himself in time, methinks. Your people did not catch it.”

She shook her head. “He need not be so nervous around his peoples. They are a forgiving lot...unlike some peoples I know.”

“Lady Mags, you have no control of what the Rozarrians do,” said Ashe. 

“I fear my reception here today,” said Mags. “Since the Rozarrian invasions, the people might look upon me as a threat.”

“Hardly,” said Basch. “Remember when I returned to Archades after we found a way to combat the Great Plague? I found you worse off than Larsa...I healed you first, and showed you what needed to be done to sweep the Plague from a body. You took that knowledge and became a healer of much renown here in Archades. The people of Archades are fond of you, Lady Marguerite...they look upon you as a healer—a humanitarian” Basch studied his hands. _The way Dalmasca looked upon Lord Gabranth, before the Rozarrians turned me into the Kingslayer again,_ thought Basch.

Lady Mags preened herself subconsciously. Larsa's page called Mags from the doorway. She stepped through the glass doors to the balustrade.

Larsa raised his head to smile broadly at his wife-to-be, and received Lady Marguerite's proffered hand. He led her to the balustrade, amidst cheers. He dropped the Royal Plural. “Marguerite and I apologize for this. She and I wished this day to be everyone's joy. Sadly, it cannot be. But I wish to make it up to everyone. After martial law ends here in Archades, I will allow one week for merriment.” His gathered peoples raised a surprised cheer—the accustomed celebration time was three days. 

As Larsa basked in the adoration of his people, Ashe tugged at Basch's sleeve. “Come—we need to prepare for the wedding.”

“But Ashe, I'm allergic to henna...”

She shoved him towards the chamber door. “Hush. We must make sacrifices for the greater good.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Larsa was correct. The church was nearly empty. It hurt Ashe's heart, but as Larsa said, it was a necessary evil. Ashe's family sat perhaps halfway down from the dais, in order to remain anonymous. She glanced around. All of her friends were here—and if she didn't know what they had disguised themselves as, she would have never recognized them.

A lovely Archadian couple sat some ten pew rows ahead of them. The man wore his hair long, and had a heavy beard—unheard-of here in Archades. His woman was tall and stately. Her dark hair was piled high atop her head. She was hugely pregnant. They wore the garb of the gentry. The bearded gentleman patted his woman's hand.

Ashe glanced at the bearded man's loose jerkin, and scowled. Fomalhaut peeked out from under the vest's hem. Ashe shook her head. Balthier was going to get into a lot of trouble one of these days. Balthier's 'wife' rubbed her belly nervously. Her hair suddenly twitched, and her irritated voice floated to Ashe.

“Bal— _tcha_...Ffamran—my ears are killing me.”

Balthier glanced at Fran. “Be still. We'll be out of here soon enough.”

“Hey, be nice to her...Ffamran,” said the ardent seated next to Balthier. Vaan looked splendid in his finery, as did a dark-haired Penelo. “She's in a family way.”

“Don't remind me,” said Balthier testily. “Now be quiet...it begins.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Larsa mounted the dais, and turned to the vestibule. An anticipatory silence settled over the sparse crowd, as everyone stood and turned to the doors. Marguerite shone in her samite gown; the gold threads woven throughout her dress shot motes of light into the dimness of the chapel. Larsa watched her pace down the aisle. He smiled at his paramour, and held his hand out to her when she arrived at the dais.

When she took her place at Larsa's side, Mags turned to the wedding guests. She pressed her lips together, raised her eyebrows nervously, and grinned at Ashe. Ashe nodded once, and smiled back. Mags turned to Larsa, and took his hands. Their priest cleared his throat. “Now we begin. Dearly beloved...”

-=-=-=-=-=-

One half hour into the ceremony, Eirlys began to fidget as the organist began another loud, long hymn. She wanted to run around and play. She wanted Norman, her stuffed chocobo. She wanted to nurse, even though Mama said she was a 'big-girl' and it was time to start eating 'big-people' food. One thing was for certain—she didn't want to be here. 

“Mama...there!” Eirlys tugged at her mother's sleeve, and pointed to the dais. “Lyssa there!”

Ashe smiled at Eirlys, and whispered, “No, Eirlys. We cannot be seen, little one. We stay back here.”

“Oh.” She dropped her gaze to her lap. Her lower lip trembled. 

Ashe ran her fingers through her daughter's flaxen hair, before she turned her countenance to her now red-headed husband. “Darling, are you all right?”

“Fine.” He shifted uncomfortably in the pew, and scratched at his beard. “I dislike the subterfuge, but it is necessary. Let's hope no one can see through our disguises.”

“Mmm. I doubt anyone will...and stop playing with your hair!” 

Basch made a face. “I _told_ you I was allergic to vegetable dyes. It itches!”

She slapped at his hand. “Be still!” Ashe turned back to her daughter, before realizing she was not seated next to her anymore. She grabbed Basch's arm, and whispered savagely, “The baby...she's gone!”

Basch cast his gaze around the church, panicked. When he found what he was looking for, he rolled his eyes shut, and cleared his throat nervously. He gestured to the soon-to-be-married couple. “I see her.”

Ashe brought her gaze up, before a tiny giggle emanated from the dais. Larsa and Marguerite stared down at Eirlys, a mixture of embarrassment and good humor on their faces. Eirlys stood between them, dancing on her toes and clapping her little hands together. The organist stopped playing discordantly. The holy man blinked at the new addition to the wedding party. Larsa knelt before the child. “Eirlys...what are you doing up here?”

Her eyes shone. “Lyssa stay! _Peas?”_

The congregation chortled. Mags nearly squirmed at the little Princess's adorable lisp. She held her hand out to Eirlys. “I don't see why not.” Larsa, smiling at his wife-to-be, followed suit. Eirlys squealed excitedly, and settled down when she took her place between the bride and groom, their hands in hers.

“Hmm,” said the holy man, “do you give your blessings to this couple, little miss?”

“Uh-huh,” said Eirlys, as the congregation laughed uproariously, and Eirlys's parents turned an interesting shade of crimson. 

-=-=-=-=-=-

After the priest pronounced Larsa and Marguerite husband and wife, Mags leaned forward and motioned Eirlys closer. “We have to go, Lyssa. You need to go back to your Mama.”

“I do?” Eirlys pouted. “'Kay.” She threw her arms around Larsa's legs and hugged him tight-tight-tight. He crimsoned again, and waved goodbye to Eirlys. 

Larsa watched Eirlys toddle back to Ashe and Basch. To Larsa's unending merriment, Basch's face was as red as his hair. He tilted his head at his new wife. “Where were we?”

“Here, I think,” said Marguerite, as she took his face between her hands and kissed him soundly. Larsa wrapped his arms around her waist, and drew her close. The wedding guests rose, and cheered. Vaan stood, and pumped the air with his fist. _“Vivat!_ Vi—OOF!”

Balthier jammed his elbow in Vaan's stomach. _That_ was the last thing they needed. The term _vivat_ was distinctly Dalmascan in nature, and they really didn't need Vaan to queer the pitch now.

Basch picked up Eirlys and tucked her against his hip. The newly married couple strode down the aisle amidst cheers and rose-petals. When they moved past Basch and Ashe, Larsa mouthed _We'll see you home._ Basch nodded imperceptibly. 

He regarded Ashe. “Let's go, before Lyssa gets us into even more trouble. To the Compound, then?”

Ashe tucked a golden curl behind Eirlys's ear. “Yes. I need to speak to Larsa about something.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Basch scratched at his head. He tried to wash the dye out of it, but he had no idea how tenacious henna was. It painted his blond hair in patches and streaks. It looked as if he had stuck his head in a bucket of congealed blood. He ran his hands through his still-wet hair, and addressed Larsa.

“My Lord,” said Basch, “Queen Ashelia has to speak to her people. The hostility is rising in Rabanastre.” 

Mags had already changed out of her samite gown and into her customary Rozarrian garb. “The issues with the Kingslayer have not abated?”

Ashe shook her head. “Not even a tiny bit—in fact, the antagonism has grown to the point that the naysayers have begun voicing their opinions openly. I need to end this...but I'm unsure how to go about doing it.”

“Speaking publicly would be a good start,” said Larsa. He brought his finger to his mouth pensively. “It might be a good idea to prove to the public that Basch is Noah, and not the Kingslayer. Remind the public of everything he has done to help Dalmasca.”

“Basch fon Ronsenburg was the same...before he was vilified,” said Ashe as she crossed her arms. 'This will be touchy. The public is angry at us for lying to them. I need to mollify them, somehow.”

Basch raised his head, and stared at Vaan. When he got the young man's attention, he jerked his chin at the door. Vaan, bemused, followed Basch as he exited.

Ashe might not know what to do, but _he_ sure as hell did.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The day Ashe and Basch returned to Rabanastre, the Queen had planned a public speech. Two days after that, she approached the hastily-built dais, laboriously-written speech in hand. Her gut twisted, almost painfully. Her gaze floated over the thousands of her countrymen that had gathered that morning. There wasn’t a single face that didn’t look upon her own with hatred. 

She wrung her hands. Was it so long ago that Vayne Carudas Solidor himself stood upon a dais just like this one, and won her people over with his eloquent speech and his grand ideals? Her people believed Vayne and believed _in_ him, charmed as they were by his demeanor and his false humility. She could understand why. When news of Dalmasca's takeover, her suicide and her father's death filtered down through the masses, her people lost all hope. When offered a life preserver, they reached for it blindly. Vayne and the Archadian Empire were beacons in Dalmasca’s time of darkness…or so Vayne wanted the people— _her_ people—to believe. 

So now, she had to do what the most hated man in Rabanastre was able to accomplish—she had to win the hearts of her people back. As did one other…

-=-=-=-=-=-

Behind her, Basch stood obscured by a stone partition. Dressed from head to toe in Gabranth’s armor, he stood silently in the shadows thrown by the shoulder-high partition. Ashe expressly forbade him to show his face during her speech, lest he incite Rabanastre’s denizens to riot. 

He frowned beneath the death’s head helmet. The only reason he was there was to ensure Ashe stayed out of danger. He despised being shunted aside in that fashion, but he would not publicly humiliate Ashe. He would not show his face until it was absolutely necessary...or until the right opportunity presented itself.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Ashe raised her hands to her people. “People of Dalmasca...”

“We don't want to hear a single word from you!” An enraged Rabanastran stood and gesticulated to Ashe. “You told us your husband was a Judge Magister! That's bad enough...but it turns out he was the Gods-damned Kingslayer!”

Ashe grasped the podium in a death-grip. “No! That is not true! The Rozarrians have planted that lie here, to stir up dissent! We...”

“You _lied_ to us!” The man turned to the crowd. “Word on the streets is Rozarria wouldn't have sacked Mount Bur-Omisace at all, if our Queen did not marry the Kingslayer. Look what happened!” He turned back to Ashe. “I think it's best if we had a regent that didn't lie to her people!”

The gathered Dalmascans howled their agreement. Ashe's eyes widened in panic. “Wait!” Ashe put her palms up. “You _must_ listen!”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Basch looked down at his daughter. Eirlys hung onto his hand, whimpering. “Mama!” she wailed.

“Time to nip this in the bud.” Basch let Eirlys's hand go, and knelt before her. He removed his helmet. “Lyssa. Do not _move._ Do you understand me?”

“Papa...”

_“Do you understand, Eirlys?”_ He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me.”

A tear slipped down Eirlys's cheek, and she hiccuped once. She nodded. “'Kay.”

“Papa will return. I promise.” With that, Basch donned the death's head helmet, and strode around the partition. The angry mob gasped once, a brief susurrus of air.

A stone sailed out of the angry mob and rang off Basch’s armor. Slowly, Basch turned his head to the crowd. The throng of Rabanastrans became as silent as death. Basch reached up, and took off his helmet. He regarded his people with thinly veiled contempt. He approached the dais, set his helmet on the ornate podium with a _thunk,_ and placed his hands to either side of it. He let the silence wind out for a few pregnant moments, before he spoke.

“People of Rabanastre…is it with hatred that you look upon your Regent? With hatred you look upon _me?”_ Basch glared at his countrymen. “Do you remember those words, spoken by our sworn enemy, seven years ago? Have you forgotten your own fickle nature, Rabanastre? Did you not warm to his honeyed words, and accept him after one paltry speech?”

A quavering, enraged voice rang from the milling throng. “You speak of Solidor, you stinking cur? You are just as he was, you Archadian dog! Our _enemy!”_

Outwardly, Basch’s face became stony, but his heart felt lighter. Thank the Makers for Vaan. He and Basch had spoken again, directly before the speech commenced, and Basch gave Vaan his marching orders: throw a stone, act enraged, and under no circumstances should he tell the Queen what Basch had planned. 

Vaan played his part perfectly. He deflected the hate Dalmasca felt for Her Royal Majesty to the Archadians—and Basch could deal with _that_ handily.

“Indeed,” said Basch dryly. “Admittedly, the Archadian Empire was once your enemy. No more. When Vayne Solidor fell, he took with him our enmity towards the country of Dalmasca, Queen Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca, and Her Majesty’s peoples.

“The Rozarrian threat has been dealt with, but it has by no means been neutralized permanently. With the Archadian Army at the ready, we will help protect your borders, as a true ally should…”

“Why would it mean anything to _you_ , Kingslayer?” A lanky, piebald little man laughed derisively. “That _is_ who you are, is it not? We Rabanastrans have long memories. We know Basch fon Ronsenburg when we see him!”

White noise sighed through the crowd, as Basch blanched noticeably. “Do not use that name in my presence.”

_Oh, no,_ thought Vaan, as he grimaced at the podium. From his vantage point in the crowd, he could see a nervous sweat break out on Basch’s upper lip. The scar on his forehead stood out like a livid tattoo against his pale countenance. _Hold it together, Basch._

The Rabanastran laughed shrilly. “Why? Does it pain you to hear your true name…Kingslayer?”

“No.” Basch shook his head slowly. “I've not been up front with you, Rabanastre. My true name is Noah fon Ronsenburg. Basch fon Ronsenburg was my twin brother. It pains me to hear that loathsome name, because I killed who you call the Kingslayer with my own hand.”

Stunned silence greeted this final admission. Basch spoke into the stillness. “It was I that carried out sentence on Basch fon Ronsenburg. I led him to the gallows. I hung the noose ‘round his neck. I pulled the trap-lever. I allowed him to slowly strangle at the end of a rope until he finally died.”

The anonymous Rabanastran’s mouth dropped open in a horrified O. “You—you’re a monster!”

“Yes. I _am_ monstrous,” said Basch, “made even more so by crushing guilt. Something in me died the day I had to look into the unseeing eyes of my twin brother and pronounce him dead.”

The piebald man shook his head. “Why in blazes did you call yourself Gabranth?”

“’Twas my mother’s maiden name. I did not want to be associated with Captain fon Ronsenburg, for reasons that are quite obvious.” Basch closed his eyes briefly. “I was judge, jury, and executioner to my own brother, and that is a curse I would never wish on another man for as long as I live. In penance, I wanted to give something back to you, the people of Dalmasca. I wanted to guard the peace here in Rabanastre, as much as I did in Archades.”

“You kept peace in Archades through threat of death! How can you say you were a guardian of peace?” The man thrust an accusing finger at Basch. “Many people died by your hand!”

Basch studied his helmet, as it reflected dull light off the podium. “I will not deny it. Nevertheless, I will say this—those that fell to my swords were dire threats to Archades. The end justified the means.”

“Codswallop!” The Rabanastran crossed his arms. “We're not stupid, Judge Magister. We've heard the horror stories about you and your filthy band of monsters!”

The crowd shouted its agreement. It was a near thing, but Basch nearly heaved a sigh of relief. The man called him Judge Magister...and not the Kingslayer. At least that particular threat was neutralized. “This 'band of monsters', as you called them, is gone. Only I and Judge Magister Zargabaath remain. And you are right. The majority of the Judges were monsters. 

“You say your memories are long. Do you remember when the _Bahamut_ fell? Zargabaath prepared to risk his own life, and the life of his crew, to save Rabanastre from the _Bahamut_ when it crashed.” Basch raised his arm, and pointed towards the remains of the _Bahamut._ Its carcass rotted on the outskirts of Rabanastre, four miles from where he stood. “He prepared to ram the _Bahamut_ with his own ship, because the last of the paling that protected Rabanastre would not hold up to the Archadian Fleet's flagship. Do you still consider him a monster, now?”

An older woman calmly stood. “That is a lie. I saw it with my own eyes—the _Alexander_ veered from the _Bahamut_ at the last second. How did the _Bahamut_ miss Rabanastre?”

Basch peered at the woman. She was vaguely familiar to him. “You know much about the Imperial Fleet. How did you know Zargabaath's ship was called _Alexander?”_

The woman placed her hands on her ample hips. “I was a member of the Resistance Movement here in Rabanastre...Noah-boy.” She grinned impishly, as Basch blinked stupidly at her. The crowd sniggered, and he blushed, embarrassed.

_“Jenny?”_ he whispered. Gods. Things come full-circle, indeed. He gazed at Noah's childhood sweetheart, and a small grin quirked the corner of his mouth. “Madam,” he said aloud, “members of your own resistance movement steered the _Bahamut_ away from Rabanastre...heroes, all.”

“I will not deny it, Judge Magister.” Jenny turned to the now-mollified crowd. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. This man saved your lives after the fall of the Great Plague. How many of you were near death when Judge Magister Gabranth healed you himself?” She half-turned to Basch, and pointed at him. “This man gave up everything he was to come to Rabanastre to wed the Queen. He could have stayed in Archades—his home, and all he knew—and remained a Judge Magister there. He threw his comfortable, accustomed life away for love...love for our Queen, and love for this country.”

“Well...who wouldn't wanna marry the Queen?” Vaan, still in disguise, pantomimed a curvy silhouette, and the crowd burst into raucous laughter. Ashe, mostly forgotten in the hullabaloo, crimsoned angrily. This was rather quickly disintegrating into a mockery of her Royal Court. 

“Silence, Nimrod,” said Jenny. “You'll not make a fool of the Queen.” The crowd roared its approval of Jenny's rebuttal, and someone threw a half-eaten sandwich at Vaan. 

Basch waved his hands over his head. “Enough! We will have quiet!” Finally, blessed silence descended. Basch nodded. He turned to Ashe, and held his hand to her. 'The floor is yours, Milady,” he said, _sotto voce._

Ashe cleared her throat as she approached the podium. “Thank you. We are here before you today, to beseech your understanding, and your common sense. The true enemy here is not your government, or the Archadian Empire. We must stand as one against the Rozarrian Empire. It was they that tore this rift between you and your Monarchy. It was they that began vicious rumors about Us, and about Our husband. We must come together now, and fight as one against the threat on Dalmasca's very doorstep.”

A brave soul stood. “The Rozarrian Empire borders our country! Why have they not attacked us outright?”

“No one knows for certain,” said Ashe, “but We can guarantee that it was done in this fashion to tear our country asunder. It is the unknown that frightens us the most, that splits us. We are under the impression that the Rozarrian Empire attacked Archades and Mount Bur-Omisace first, to spread chaos here. A country in turmoil is an easy country to usurp. We are also under the assumption that Rozarria attacked in that fashion, because if they attacked Dalmasca outright, Archades would retaliate swiftly and without quarter. If Archades was destroyed first, 'twould be easy to move against Dalmasca.”

“Archades showed them, didn't they?” Jenny said. “The Rozarrian Army was annihilated at the Archadian borders.”

“And they would be annihilated at our borders, as well,” said Basch. “Battalions of Archadian soldiers have been stationed at the outskirts of our country since the sacking of Mount Bur-Omisace. Our country is safe, for the time being.”

The crowd erupted into tumultuous cheers. Ashe nodded once, relieved. She raised her voice again. “I also have joyous news for Dalmasca. Despite the hardships we have had to face, We have been blessed once again.”

Without warning, Eirlys sprinted across the dais, and buried her face in her mother's growing belly. “Baby! Mama's baby!”

“Baby?” The buxom woman smiled. “There will be another child born to the House of Dalmasca?”

Ashe nodded to the woman, as she stepped around the podium. She placed her hands on her little belly. “Yes. The Gods have gifted Us. We are pregnant once again.”

More cheers from the throngs. Ashe fetched a deep sigh. For now, she held her countrymen in thrall. She prayed that the shaky peace would last.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Afterwards, Basch met with Jenny. He searched the square for her, until he found her seated on the steps of the Giza Gate. He sat himself next to her. “I didn't recognize you at first, Jenny.”

“Nor did I recognize you...Basch,” said Jenny smugly. 

Basch glanced around nervously. He hurriedly led her to the dais, and the security of the compound. “You know nothing of that, Jenny,” said Basch. “We just spent the past hour trying to convince all of Rabanastre that I was Judge Magister Gabranth.”

She nodded once. “Your secret is safe with me...Noah.”

Basch leaned in closer. “How in blazes did you know the difference between Noah and I?”

Jenny shrugged. “You sound like Basch. 'Tis a good thing no one else here in Dalmasca knows the difference.” She pressed her lips together. “What became of Noah?”

He stared at his boot-tops. “Noah is dead. He has been gone for seven years.”

Jenny mirrored Basch, and tears sprung to her eyes. “Somehow..I've always known that's what would befall him. Were you there, at the end?”

He nodded slowly. “'Twas when I took on the role of Judge Magister Gabranth. With his dying breath, he asked it of me.”

“You truly are noble,” said Jenny, sniffling. “Dalmasca could not have a better man as their Prince Consort.”

Basch rolled his eyes. “I hate that title.”

“Get used to it.” Jenny glanced past Basch, and placed her hand over her heart. She bowed low. “Your Majesty.”

Ashe materialized at Basch's elbow. She cradled Eirlys close, as she slept in her arms. “I want to thank you for your assistance today. Who exactly are you, besides a resistance fighter?”

Jenny shrugged. “Noah's childhood sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

Ashe stiffened. “You've been acquainted with ...erm, Noah...your entire life?”

“Ah...” Jenny glanced at Basch, and scratched her cheek. She motioned the Queen closer. When Ashe did so, her forehead creased in worry, Jenny whispered, “The _other_ Noah, Majesty.”

Ashe's mouth dropped open, and she made a small noise of understanding. “Oh. I see.”

Eirlys woke in Ashe's arms. She blinked at Jenny. “Mama...lady?”

“This is Jenny, Lyssa,” said Basch. He stroked his little daughter's flaxen hair. “She is an old friend of Papa's.”

“Jenny?” She made a confused face as she beheld Jenny. “Kweh?”

_“Kweh?”_ Jenny frowned. “What does _that_ mean?”

“Uh,” said Basch, crimsoning, “That's Lyssa's word for 'chocobo'. We...our chocobo's name is Jenny.”

Jenny lowered her head and glared at Basch. “You named your chocobo after me?”

“No! She...came with the name.” Basch's flush deepened. “It just worked out that way, Jenny.”

“I see.” She smiled warmly at Ashe, who still regarded Jenny warily. “Are you worried that I'm here to snatch him away from you, to be closer to my beloved Landis? Fear not, Highness. Your husband is safe from my clutches. I am as happily married as you are, now”

Ashe made a small noise in her throat. “Forgive me. I ought not be so jealous of every single woman that my husband has known in his life, whether he had a relationship with her or not.”

Basch blanched, and began sidling away from Ashe.

“Besides,” Ashe continued, “his brother was your paramour. It's not as if you and my husband were once lovers.”

Basch froze. He glanced at Jenny, and shook his head minutely in warning.

“Oh, Basch and I _were_ lovers,” said Jenny airily. “I had both him _and_ Noah. Many times.”

Basch tilted his head back, and covered his face with one hand. “Thank you, Jenny.” He began to creep away from his now-irate wife again.

“Not at the same time, mind,” said Jenny. “I'm fairly certain neither one of them would have been game to that, even if _I_ was. Although, once I had them about five minutes apart...and neither of them knew about the other. They _never_ did, until the end.”

Ashe's arm shot out. She grabbed Basch as he attempted another escape. She yanked him close. “So _then_ what happened, Jenny?” Ashe flashed Basch a flat grin. “I'd love to hear this.”

“Well, there's nothing _to_ hear. Before Basch left for Dalmasca and Noah for Archades, I took Noah to the hayloft of my father's barn. After love, I gave him a hug and a kiss, and told Noah he had my undying love.” Jenny smiled ruefully, and spread her hands. “Unfortunately for me, it wasn't _Noah_ I took to the hayloft.”

Snorting disbelieving laughter, Ashe turned her head and beheld Basch. “She called you Noah after you made love to her?”

“She did,” said Basch through grated teeth. “I never forgave her for that. Directly after I fled her father's barn—half-naked, mind—I went looking for Noah, and beat him so bloody he looked like a Valendian sunrise after an earthquake. Truthfully, he and I pummeled each other senseless that morning, because Noah was _also_ under the impression that he was the only one rogering Jenny.”

Jenny fluttered her eyelashes, and her lower lip trembled. “You still haven't forgiven me for that yet?”

“You gave me gonorrhea, Jenny,” said Basch. “Why _should_ I?”

“Time to let bygones be bygones?” Jenny glanced sidelong at Ashe and tipped her a wink.

-=-=-=-=-=-

After Jenny's husband arrived to escort her home, Basch and Ashe returned to the Royal Compound. They put Eirlys down for sleep, and readied themselves for bed. 

Ashe lounged skyclad on their bed. She ran her fingers down her pregnant belly. Basch had told her once or twice that he thought her pregnancy made her nude body alluring and beautiful, and that he could hardly keep his hands off her when she was in that state. She aimed to take full advantage of that tonight—not only did she want to thank him personally for saving the day, she wanted to stake her claim on him anew...just in case Basch had second thoughts about the buxom, blond Jenny. Chuckling, she stretched her arms over her head as Basch entered the room. She waggled her eyebrows, and jiggled herself fetchingly. She made a come-hither gesture with her finger.

Basch slid between cool sheets, and rolled over on his side...away from Ashe. Ashe reached out and touched his bare shoulder. “What is it, Basch? You don't really think I'm angry with you about Jenny, do you?”

“No.” He hoisted the sheets over his bare shoulders, and hunched himself down to the mattress. “I don't want to discuss it.”

She shimmied close to his body, and spooned him. “Really...what is it?”

Interminable silence ensued. Then: “I killed a man today.”

“What in the _world...?”_ Ashe wrapped her arms around his belly. “What are you talking about?”

Basch turned over to behold his wife. “Today, I killed Basch fon Ronsenburg. Before our entire city, I proclaimed myself to be Noah Gabranth.”

“Noah fon Ronsenburg, actually,” said Ashe. She snuggled closer. “It is fortunate that you chose to tell my people of your true surname. Our children can now be known by their birth names. You said...”

“I said that I am Noah fon Ronsenburg,” said Basch, as he pulled out of Ashe's embrace. “I also said that I killed Basch with my own hands. I have forever ensured that you will never be beset by rumor or hostility from your own people, and yes—I have also ensured that my family's name will go on. My children will have my last name.” 

Basch brought his body closer. He touched Ashe's growing belly, as he laid his head against hers. He fetched a papery sigh, and Ashe realized, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he was in tears. “I am forever trapped in this deceit. I will never be Basch again. When I told the crowd that I killed Basch fon Ronsenburg, it was true in ways I dare not think about. And now I can never turn back. 

“Basch fon Ronsenburg is now—and forever will be—dead. I've killed _myself.”_


	7. And the Wheel Turns Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a mention of a book (that I made up) written by the far-famed Merlose, and I had Revenant Wings in mind when I came up with the tongue-in-cheek title. The Ivalice Alliance time-line is so wonky that I have no real idea when Merlose lived in reference to the time of FFXII. I think Merlose was in Vagrant Story, originally, but I'm really unsure. That's a tiny bit of research that I decided to be lazy about.

Five years passed.

Rozarria made no move to attack, but at the same time did not make any attempt at peace. Despite that, over the span of years there were numerous anonymous acts of war. Assassinations, bombings, insurrection—the whispers of impending war floated on the wind with days gone by. 

They aged. Ashe watched her husband grow old. Fifty was not ancient, not by any stretch of the imagination, but Basch showed his age in many small ways. His hair, once the color of the sun shot with skeins of purest moonlight, was now almost completely silver. The blue of his eyes had faded to the lowering gray pre-dusk of a February sky. His face was a dry-wash of crow's feet and frown lines. He smiled less and less these days.

But still...

His countenance would illuminate when he beheld his children. His little ones made him feel less old—made him act and even _look_ less old. He instructed Eirlys often, from the fine art of strategy to how to defend herself in battle. She absorbed whatever knowledge and wisdom Basch gave her, and soon became as studious as her father once was. 

Idris was born after Rozarria lay siege on Mt. Bur-Omisace. Like his sister, Idris was the spit and image of their father. As much as they resembled each other physically, their personalities were as different as night and day. Eirlys inherited their mother's fiery temper, while Idris was as calm and stoic as their father.

Basch loved his daughter fervently, but Idris was the apple of his eye. Basch insisted that he did not favor his youngest child, despite the fact that anyone within spitting distance knew better. Was it the fact that the little boy carried the clear stamp of his father's features? Was it because Idris took on more and more of his father's mannerisms as the days went by? No one knew...least of all Basch, but it mattered little to him. 

Unfortunately, he did not notice the manner in which his daughter studied him lately. She watched...when he took little Idris a-hunting for Giza bunnies...when the two of them would sit in the study for hours, poring over one book or another...when her Papa rocked Idris to sleep at night, after the nightmares where the bogeys came out...she saw it all, and began to resent her beloved Papa for it.

-=-=-=-=-=-

One day, not long before the final lingering confrontation with Rozarria, Eirlys lounged on her bed as she flipped idly through her timeworn copy of _Yahri A to Z._ She loved to read this book. In it were hundreds of colorful illustrations and detailed notes by a woman named Merlose. What Eirlys loved the best was her own Papa's notes next to each entry. His loopy, scrawling script detailed every expedition he, Mama, and their friends ventured on.

She flipped to her favorite section. A Wyrdhare gazed blandly at her. Her blue eyes widened as she read her father's recollection of their trip through the Salikawood.

_Fran asked us not to kill the dreamhares here. They did not attack us, so they posed us no threat. One day, deep in the Wood, we came across what seemed to be hundreds of them. It became difficult to maneuver around them without stomping on the poor things. Blame it on me...I accidentally tripped over one of the little beasties, and they attacked us en-masse. 'Twas bad enough they fought us as one...they also had a kind of magick at their disposal. One of them dusted me with some sort of powder, and I went into a fugue. I nearly killed Balthier and Penelo before Ashe intervened. Just as we dispatched the last of them, a dark hare dropped from the treetops and bit me on the shoulder. It wasn't bad, the bite, but the little bastard put up one hell of a fight. Later, Dalan told Vaan that the brute was called a Spee, and that its tail was widely sought for the Stardust that coated it. The general consensus of the group was that I got to keep the tail, as it bit me first..._

Eirlys looked up from the book, at the various trinkets strewn about her room that Papa had given her over the years. She scowled. _She_ didn't get the Spee tail...Idris did. She rolled off her bed, and made for her door. She stopped herself when she remembered she was sent to her room until supper—all because of her monster of a little brother.

She grumbled to herself as she threw herself back onto her bed. _Stupid Idris...he didn't hafta tell on me. All I did was paint his face when he was asleep. I can't believe Mama had a fit about her makeup. It was only lipstick...and rouge...and eye kohl..._

Eirlys made a sour face, as she tossed her book on her divan. _Pest,_ she thought. _If it weren't for him, I'd be outside playing. Stupid brat..._

As if conjured by her thoughts, Idris opened the door to her chamber. He shuffled his little feet bashfully. “Lyssa? C'n I come in?”

“Go away,” said Eirlys. She swung her legs over the foot of her bed, and crossed her arms. “It's your fault I was punished. I'm stuck inside now, thanks to you.”

“You didn't hafta paint my face with Mama's makeup, Lyssa,” said Idris testily. He narrowed his blue-gray eyes at Eirlys. “It's all _your_ fault in the first place that you're stuck inside.”

 _“Tch._ It was just a game, Idris. You're too sensitive.”

“Am _not!”_ He flopped onto Eirlys's divan. He grabbed her copy of _Yahri A to Z_ and idly flipped through it. 

“It would help if you knew how to read, Iddy,” said Eirlys sardonically. _“I_ learned how to read by the time I was three.”

Her barb had the desired effect. Idris snapped the book shut. “Fat lot of good you know. Papa says it's okay that I can't read good yet. He says _he_ didn't learn to read until he was five...an' I'm only four!”

Eirlys shrugged, simpering. “You're gonna be five in a few months. Really, Iddy, I can't believe that Papa was as stupid as you when he was little.”

Idris made to throw the book at his evil big sister, when their Mama's voice floated down the hallway. “Iddy...Lyssa! Supper is ready. Come to supper, now.”

Idris stuck his tongue out at Eirlys, and scurried from her room. Smiling, she followed.

-=-=-=-=-=-

“Eat, Iddy,” said Basch. “Stop playing with your food.”

“Not hungry.” Idris dumped his chin into his palm. “Wanna go to my room now.”

Eirlys looked pointedly at Idris. “Why? So you can go read your favorite book, Iddy?”

“Eirlys! That was mean-spirited,” exclaimed Ashe. Her eyes flashed dangerously at her daughter, as she chided her through clenched teeth. “Apologize to your brother. Right. Now.”

“Oh...you're right, Mama,” said Eirlys airily, “I'm sorry, Iddy. Wanna play a game of chess after supper? Oh, sorry...you don't know _how_ to play, do you? _I_ learned when you were still in nappies.”

Basch buried his forehead in his palm. “Stop. Just—stop it, both of you.”

“Mama!” Tears coursed down Idris's chubby cheeks. “Make her _stop,_ Mama!”

“Sorry,” said Eirlys, sounding anything but.

“I'm going to _make_ you sorry, Lyssa, if you don't stop picking on Iddy.” Ashe tapped her fingers on her plate. “Gods help you if you don't leave him be.”

Eirlys caught Idris's eye, and mouthed, _“What are you gonna do about it?”_

Idris's face flushed, as he grabbed the nearest thing to hand—namely, his baked potato—and hurled it at Eirlys. It bounced off her shoulder. She shrieked, and leapt from her chair. Ashe grabbed her daughter's shoulder and pushed her back into her seat. 

Idris made to grab another part of his supper and turn it into a projectile, when Basch stood suddenly. His face was dark with angry blood. He curled his hands into fists, and brought them down full-force on either side of his dinner plate. Their water glasses jumped, spraying water everywhere. He glared at Eirlys and Idris. His breath tore in and out of his lungs.

He then did something that even Ashe didn't expect: he screamed at the children. _“ENOUGH!”_

Idris gasped once, and then started sobbing in earnest. Eirlys's lower lip trembled. Surely— _surely,_ Papa wasn't yelling at _her..._

“You will both sit here, and not say one _word,_ until you are excused. When you are, you will go to your rooms and not leave them until we allow you to.” Basch ran his fingers through his hair, in an attempt to recover his composure. “Do you both understand?”

Eirlys began to cry. “But Papa...I...”

He placed his hands, palms down, on the table, and leaned close to Eirlys. _“Do...you...understand?”_

Eirlys couldn't withstand the vitriol in her beloved Papa's eyes, and dropped her gaze to her plate. She nodded miserably.

After their altercation and subsequent grounding, the children sullenly picked at their meal. Ashe tapped her finger against her water glass. “Are you two quite done?”

Her offspring grunted in reply. She sighed, as Basch frowned at his daughter and son. “Then you are excused. To your rooms, now—you are not to leave them until the morning. Think on what you've done today. We'll discuss this tomorrow.”

Easy tears sprung to Idris's eyes, as his lower lip trembled. “I'm sorry, Papa...”

“Tomorrow, Idris.” Basch approached his little son, and ruffled his ashen curls. “We'll talk about this tomorrow, after a good night's sleep. All right? Go kiss Mama good night.”

“'Kay.” After he did what he was bid, he walked, head down, out of the dining room. Without saying good night, Eirlys followed suit silently.

After an interminable moment, Ashe ran her fingers through her hair and sighed deeply. “That was fairly ugly. I never expected Lyssa or Iddy to act in such a manner.”

“It's _you_ Lyssa takes after, Highness,” said Basch. “You were a horror when you were seven, too.”

Ashe raised her head as her mouth dropped open indignantly. “I was never _that_ bad, Basch. I may have been bull-headed, but I never lashed out at anyone.”

“No...I suppose not,” said Basch. “I don't understand why they act this way toward each other. Noah and I were inseparable until we were nearly grown.”

Silence. Then: “You didn't have to raise your voice at the children, Basch.”

He scowled. “They didn't have to act the way they did.”

“That is _no_ excuse!” She gesticulated angrily. “They're _children,_ Basch. The do not know any better.”

“They ought to.” Basch pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am under enormous amounts of stress, Ashe. With the news we received about the Rozarrian Front today, this is the last thing I need. Their nonsense is unacceptable.”

Ashe sighed, and reached across the table to touch Basch's hand. “I know. And they've learned from their mistake, I'll wager.”

He pressed his lips together, and turned his hand over He twined his fingers with his wife's. “I didn't mean to scare them.”

“Perhaps they needed this scare, to startle the good sense into them,” said Ashe.

More silence descended. Ashe studied her rapidly cooling meal, while Basch pushed his food from one side of his plate to the other. He looked up at Ashe. “Lyssa is becoming more independent of us by the day. I ought not be so hard on the girl. She is only stretching her wings.”

“It's too early for that. She _is_ only seven, after all.” Ashe twiddled her fork nervously. She looked at Basch, and smiled wanly. “It's so quiet without the two monsters screaming at each other across the table.”

Basch raised his eyebrows slightly at Ashe. “It's been years since we've sat to a quiet meal.” He folded his hands. “I'm sorry, Ashe.”

“Accepted,” she replied, “but I think the ones you ought to apologize to have been sent to their rooms.”

He nodded. “When the children and I talk tomorrow, I will apologize to them, as well.” He studied his hands. “Ashe?”

“Yes?”

He gestured to her plate. “Are you finished with your supper?”

“Yes. Have something in mind, love?” She propped her head up on her upturned palm, and grinned archly. 

“Maybe so...” He mirrored her, down to her peaches-and-cream smile. “I'd like to apologize to you...extensively. You think those two will be asleep soon?”

“Maybe so...” Ashe echoed, as she smirked coyly at her husband. “And I have something in mind for us, as well.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Eirlys pulled the covers to her chin, and bit back a small sob. Why did Papa love Idris more? She was always getting into trouble, even for little things, while Idris got away with bloody murder. 

She sniffled loudly. She didn't even understand _herself_ —no matter how much Idris got her in trouble, she didn't hate him...much. She knew he was her little brother, and she had to watch out for him, and love him even though he was a snotty brat. And she did.

The person she hated most now wasn't Idris, but her father. The sun rose and set on Idris, according to Papa, and Eirlys hated him for it. She was the first-born! She was destined to be Queen! She knew how to read! Papa taught her to play chess after Idris was born, true, but Eirlys felt that he taught her because Idris couldn't grasp the basics of the game. She mastered chess handily...just for Papa! But when Idris was born, it was almost as if she became an afterthought. 

In the darkness, Eirlys heard a shuffle of tiny feet. The door to her bedroom cracked open, letting in a flood of buttery torch-light. Idris stood there in silhouette. “Lyssa?”

“Wanna get me in trouble again, Idris?” She rolled over onto her side, away from her rotten little brother. “Go away!”

He did not answer—instead, he crept into Eirlys's room, and crawled into her bed. “I c'n get in trouble for this, too. I'm not allowed out of my room either, Lyssa.”

“Then why are you here?”

Idris snuggled with Eirlys. “I'm lonely. I wanna say I'm sorry, Lyssa. Are you mad at me?”

“Yeah, I am.” Eirlys turned over, and faced Idris. “You always get me in trouble, Iddy.”

“Not always. You get _yourself_ in trouble a whole lot, too,” said Idris. “Do you accept my sorries?”

Eirlys tried not to burst into laughter, to no avail. When she sobered, she said, “Apology, Iddy. You mean, 'do you accept my apology'.”

Idris shrugged. “Okay. Do you?”

Eirlys blew an irritated sigh, before she wrapped her arms around her little brother. She thought about how she felt about Papa. Maybe she was being too hard on him, too. “Yeah, I guess so. Even though I still don't think you deserve it half the time.”

Idris rubbed at his eyes, yawning. “Good. I feel better, now.”

Eirlys hugged Idris. “Me too.”

Silence descended. Then: “Iddy? Maybe we both should apologize to Mama and Papa in the morning.”

Idris snuggled closer to his big sister. “I think so, too.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Mellow, warm light limned every curve of Basch's musculature as he disrobed. He turned the lamp down until it was a tiny mote in the darkness. He slid between the cool sheets, and joined his wife in bed. Ashe chuckled, as she ran her fingers over his defined stomach. Basch responded by giggling and writhing away from her tortuous tickling.

“Cut that out, Ashe!”

“Oh, no you don't. You're not getting away from me that easily.” Ashe wrapped her arms around Basch's waist, and drew him closer. “We haven't had alone-time in what feels like years. I'm going to take advantage of the solitude.”

He flattened his body against Ashe's, and propped his chin up with one hand. “You're right, Ashe—it has to have been at least three months since the last time we've made love. I think you are neglecting my masculinity, my dear.”

Ashe snorted derisively. “Oh, for heaven's sake! It was two weeks ago, Basch. You act as if I've become a frigid old hag. You're appetite has become voracious in your old age.”

“You are as old as you feel, Ashe—and right now, I feel thirty years younger.” He ran his palm over his hair. “At dinner, I felt thirty years _older,_ though. Our children are so much younger than I am. I think I've forgotten what it is like to be five years old, or seven.”

“Darling, there isn't a single fifty-year-old on Ivalice as young as you are. I think the children make you feel young, despite what you may think.” She chuckled under her breath. “But there are days that they make me feel eighty, as well.”

“'Tis on par with every parent on Ivalice, love,” said Basch. He lowered his head to the valley between Ashe's head and shoulder, and slowly ran his tongue along her throat to the line of her jaw. “Enough about the children. I only have you on my mind right now.”

“I won't argue with you about that, darling,” said Ashe. Her fingers trailed down his belly, and ran along his awakening member. It jumped under her ministrations. She grasped it, and he stiffened under her gentle touch.

Ashe vaulted one elegant eyebrow at Basch, and reached across the bed and opened the nightstand drawer. She pulled out a small phial of opalescent liquid. She held it up to eye level, and waggled her eyebrows at Basch. “Care to take a trip down Memory Lane, darling?”

He blinked incredulously at Ashe. “Where in the world did you get _that?_ I vaguely remember that ambrosia got us in serious trouble the first time we ingested it,” said Basch. His heart galloped madly in his chest, and anticipation tingled through his extremities. “I suppose we've learned to trust each other enough to use it, wot? What brought this on?”

Ashe shrugged. “I've noticed how much stress you've been under as of late, Basch. I got this because of its calming effects, and...because it heightens other senses. Consider this a treat, as this was quite dear. It took much to find it. Are you willing?”

“Actually, I am,” he said, brightening. “I've never seen this side of you, love. The thought of loving you under its intoxication is intoxicating in itself.”

“I wanted to make it up to you, as I've been 'neglecting your masculinity', as you call it. I wanted to enjoy you the best I could. I won't even overdose us on this, promise.” They shared a laugh, as Ashe reached up and stroked his cheek. “I miss loving you, like we used to.”

He ran his hands over her body. “I miss it too, Ashe.”

“Par for the course, Darling,” said Ashe with a laugh. “We have two young children. We hardly have the time to sleep anymore, let alone enjoy each other.”

“Too true,” said Basch. He took the phial from Ashe's fingers. “I aim to remedy that.” He glanced over his shoulder at their bedroom door. “Are you sure they're asleep?”

“Quite sure, Basch. I checked on them before I came to bed. The two of them are asleep in Lyssa's room.”

The corners of Basch's mouth curled. “So much for sticking to their punishment. It is amazing how easily they forget their enmity.” His grin widened. “I must take that into account, the next time we have a spat.”

Ashe crossed her arms. “Wouldn't it be easier not to fight in the first place?”

“And where is the fun in that? If we didn't argue, we wouldn't have any fun apologizing to each other afterwards.” Basch drew his lips down Ashe's body. He dipped his head to her breast, and she sucked air over her teeth. He drew Ashe up onto her knees, reared up on his own, and held her body close to his. She sighed a brief susurrus, and straddled him. Her legs wound around his back. He opened the phial, and tipped two drops of the rarefied tincture onto her tongue. She dipped her head lower and kissed her husband deeply. In this fashion did he enter her.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Things change, and yet...they stay the same, don't they? 

The spiciness of the ambrosia trickled down his throat, and brought about total recall of the first night he and Ashe spent in each other's arms. If Basch closed his eyes, he could see the constellations stitching their intricate patterns across the skin of the midnight sky...he could still hear the roar of the bonfire and her voice whisper his name, so much like music...he could smell intermingled woodsmoke and the rare oils that Ashe used to dress her hair...he could feel the heat of the conflagration and their own joined bodies.

Ashe slowly rocked. She gazed down at Basch, and her heart raced wildly. After all these years, after all they've been through...he still had the power to make her breath catch as if on a thorn. Her heart beat strongly against his, and in her beating heart she felt a surge of love for the man that knelt before her, loving her. She loved him for gifting her with two beautiful children. She loved him for being true to her, for being as constant as the wind. She loved him for being hers. She loved him for loving her.

The ambrosia did its job, as doubt was cast away, inhibitions laid aside. Their skin was afire with sensations rarely felt when not under the ambrosia's influence. A lovely amnesia settled over their being, as they forgot themselves and all the things that made them who they were. They forgot their worries in each other's embrace...they forgot their troubles under the lovely, multicolored blanket of the ambrosia. 

The only awareness Basch retained was his cognizance of Ashe, as he moved within her and she moved with him. He panted against his wife's throat, and moaned deep in his chest. His arms wrapped around Ashe's waist, squeezed her tightly. _“Oh, Ashelia...oh, my love!”_

As it always had, time stopped in each other's embrace. They gave each other love. They smiled into each other's eyes. They held each other close. Ashe cried out her affirmation to the still, wee hours of the morning, and some time after, Basch followed suit.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Some moments after they had found their finish, Basch lowered Ashe to the mattress, and covered her body with his. Ashe took a deep breath. “You haven't lost your touch, have you?”

Basch nuzzled Ashe's cheek. “You bring out the best in me, Ashe.”

“I love you, Basch.”

“And I love you, Ashe. More than anyth...”

Something bounced off Basch's head. It made a squeaking noise as it landed on the pillow next to Ashe's head. She plucked it off the bed and peered at it in the gloom. She blinked at Basch. “Norman?”

Basch goggled at Ashe. _“Who?”_

“Iddy's stuffed Chocobo. It was Lyssa's, and she...” She glanced up when she heard a shuffling footstep in the darkness. Ashe strained her eyes as she peered into the gloom.

Suddenly a hard-backed book sailed out of the darkness and struck Basch squarely on his forehead. His body flipped bum over teakettle off the side of the bed. He grunted once as his body fell to the floor with a rather ugly thud.

Idris flew through the semi-darkness, and threw himself on their bed. He covered his mother with his body, and scowled fiercely at Basch. “PAPA! Stop hurting Mama!”

One sinewy arm shot out from halfway under the bed, and grasped the coverlet for purchase. Basch dragged himself into a sitting position. His free hand flew to his forehead. When he brought his hand down to inspect it, it was slimed with blood. He ground his teeth. “Damned scar popped open again.”

Ashe tutted at her youngest child. “Idris! What in the _world_...what is the meaning of this?”

“Papa was hurting you...I heard you crying and shouting. You woke me up...” Idris looked down at Ashe's nakedness, and his jaw dropped to his nightshirt. “Mama...why are you starkers?”

“Erm...we...I mean, Papa and I were...Basch, help me here,” said Ashe, nervously pulling the sheets around her nude body.

Basch made an exasperated noise. “My head is spinning, love. I can hardly think. Look elsewhere for help.”

“That's the ambrosia. Get your head together...”

He gave Ashe a warning look. “The ambrosia wore off five minutes ago. My head is muddled because our delightful son just beaned me with a hard-covered book. Don't test my patience, Ashelia.”

Eirlys's voice floated to them from the sitting room of their apartments. “Iddy? You in here?” Eirlys walked into their bedroom, and immediately covered her face with her hands. “I'm sorry, Mama! I didn't see! I swear I didn't see! Is Iddy in here?”

“He certainly is,” said Basch, as he dabbed at his bloody forehead with the hem of Ashe's nightgown. “Get him out of here.”

“Papa?” Idris glanced over the lip of the bed, and looked at Basch as if he were insane. “Why are you starkers too?”

“Gods,” said Basch. “Out. Both of you.”

“But...”

“We'll talk about it in the morning, all right?” Ashe pointed to the door. “Time to leave Mama and Papa alone for the night.”

Finally, thankfully...Eirlys did as she was told. She grabbed Idris's hand, Norman, and her _Yahri A to Z_ book, and fled from the bedroom. When the door shut behind them, Ashe leapt from the bed to examine Basch's wound. She tutted over the gash on his head, as she tore her nightgown apart for bandages. “It's not bleeding heavily. Are you all right?”

“I'm fantastic, Ashe.” He took a wad of Ashe's nightgown and pressed it against the cut. “It is days like this that make me believe that my mother was a saint. She never once expressed a desire to murder Noah or I, no matter how badly we acted. Not out loud, anyway.”

“You underestimate yourself, Basch,” said Ashe, grinning. “You are as much a saint as your mother was. I certainly never expected this from my children...or rather, I never expected my children to be as monstrous as I was.”

“Mother was right,” said Basch with a small sigh. “Karma can be an ugly thing.”

Ashe bandaged Basch's head. When she was finished with the impromptu first-aid, she lay down. “What do you mean?”

Basch hauled himself off the floor, and drew on a pair of shorts. “My brother and I destroyed every single piece of my mother's china one day when we were six.”

“How on Ivalice did you manage that?” Ashe shimmied over to her side of the bed to allow Basch access. He dropped to the bed, and rolled on his side. He regarded Ashe silently, before he crimsoned, embarrassed.

“I...erm...I talked Noah into balancing every single dish in the house on our heads.” He tucked one hand behind his head and looped his free arm around Ashe's waist. “Let's just say Mother was a wee bit angry at us.”

She shook her head. “I'm not even going to pretend to know how you managed that.”

“Ask not, my love. The long and short of it was, even though she thrashed us until our backsides shrieked high holy Hell, she laughed fit to split at our misbehavior.” Basch chortled. “She warned us that if we were to ever have children, they would be ten times worse than we ever were. She was right.”

Ashe raised her eyebrows at her husband. “She cursed you, did she?”

He touched his bruising forehead, and winced. “I'd say she succeeded. Wouldn't you?”


	8. Forever Spring

It was spring again in Rabanastre.

Eirlys sat placidly in the sun, her _Yahri A to Z_ book spread across her lap. She glanced up at her mother. “Mama—is it true that you and Papa and your friends fought giant toads?”

“Yes,” said Ashe. “Nasty buggers they were, too. Did you read your father's notes on the Suriander?”

Eirlys nodded enthusiastically. “I sure did! Is it true that Papa got a pendant for you from the Suriander?”

Ashe chuckled. “Is that what he wrote there?” When Eirlys nodded, she mirrored her daughter's movement. “It _is_ true. He saw the purplish stone hanging from one of the beast's horns, and went to snatch it. The Suriander didn't take too kindly to thieves, and ran your father through.”

“And you saved him, Mama?” Idris turned from the sunfish, and gave all his attention to his mother.

“I think Penelo healed him, actually,” said Ashe. She reminisced fondly. “At any rate, I got a new bauble, while your father insisted he gave it to me because it helped with magick concentration.”

“Oh, sure,” said Eirlys with a smirk. “Papa's a smooth one.” She dipped her head to the book again.

Ashe rolled her eyes at her daughter. Eirlys was a joy, but she was a handful—fifteen going on forty, she was...

Ashe's heart galloped once. Fifteen years old. Eirlys was fifteen years old now.

Oh, it wasn't that Ashe was utterly ignorant of Eirlys's age; it was nothing like that at all. But the sudden realization that _fifteen years_ had passed since Rozzaria first antagonized Ivalice crashed into her all at once. It felt like it was yesterday that she held Eirlys in her arms. She could still hear her daughter's voice echo in her ears, the day she first called her Mama. Was it so long ago that Eirlys took her first halting steps? Fifteen years wasn't really all that long a time, was it?

Surely not.

The years—they had simply rolled past. The past fifteen years held little importance, save the mundanity of everyday life. The children grew, as they usually do with the passage of time. Ashe had aged, as the inexorable march of time took its toll on her. And as she realized just how much time had fallen by the wayside, Ashe realized—with almost clinical horror—that she had spent much of that time watching Basch age.

The man that was immortal to her once-youthful, childish eyes had become old. He had retained some of his youthfulness in his still-powerful body, and from time to time Ashe could see the shadow of the young man Basch once was—sometimes in his stance, sometimes when he smiled at her, sometimes when they made love. She made little issue of it. She wasn't young herself, anymore. They lived their lives as well as they could, under the relentless shadow of war and the crushing weight of their own mortality.

As she watched her children play on the foot-bridge by the sunfish pond, she had to smile. That pond got her into more trouble than she cared to think about. When she was five, she nearly killed Basch in it. Grinning, she watched her children laugh in the sun, and allowed the memory to envelop her.

She was only five, then—and there was almost nothing she wouldn't give to be five once again...just for a moment.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Princess Ashelia whiled away her free time by her mother's fish-ponds. Ashe loved the little park, because she swore that she felt Queen Sara's presence there. Basch, on the other hand, had little patience with the late Queen's private park. It wasn't safe for an inquisitive five year old, that was for certain. He glanced at Ashe, and felt a few more gray hairs sprout. The Princess knelt by the biggest pond. She peered into it, hoping to catch a glimpse of the giant sunfish that lived there.

He drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “Princess Ashelia, mind me. Get away from the edge.”

The tiny princess stuck her tongue out at her taciturn protector. For as long as Ashe could remember, Basch tried his level best to spoil her fun at every turn. She turned her back on the Dalmascan Knight sullenly. “I wanna see the sunfish!”

Basch tapped his fingertips together in annoyance. “Highness, I'll not tell you again. Stay away from the railing. You might fall into the pond.”

Ashe tutted, and stamped her foot. “I will _not_! I'm not a dummy, Basch.”

“Gods.” Basch ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “I will take you inside immediately, if you do not listen to me. There, you'll have to explain to your father why you are being so contrary.”

“Fine,” said Ashe. “I don't wanna go inside. It's too nice out.” This was only a half-truth. She really didn't want her father cross with her, so she stepped away from the ankle-high railing and returned to Basch's side. She reached up and took his gauntleted hand. “Where do you wanna go, then?”

“The pub, actually,” said Basch, _sotto voce_. When Ashe blinked uncomprehendingly at him, Basch shook his head. “Never mind, Princess. Perhaps you'd like to go see the Gardens?”

“Ohhh...all right. I like Mama's flowers.” Before her death, Queen Sara tended a lovely desert bloom garden in Rabanastre's main Plaza. It was part of a beautification project that nearly wasn't completed, due to the Queen's death. The Gardens came to be because of the love that Dalmasca held for their Queen. They continued to tend the gardens in her stead.

“Good. It'll be dark soon. Let's go while we can,” said Basch. They walked back to the castle. He mock-scowled at his charge, and squeezed her hand slightly. He opened his mouth to say something else, when a lilting, feminine voice called out to him.

He glanced up, and smiled. Ashe followed his line of sight, and her own face lit up. Her governess Lynn walked toward them, Ashe's favorite storybook under one arm. The short, buxom woman smiled disarmingly at Basch, who flushed slightly.

He cleared his throat nervously. “Erm...good evening, Miss Lynn.”

“'Tis a fine evening, is it not?” Lynn knelt before Ashe. “It is almost time for the Princess to eat supper. Shall I take over from here?”

Ashe shook her head hard enough to make her wealth of blond hair fly. “Uh-uh. I wanna stay with Basch. He's mine.”

Lynn tilted her face up to Basch, and smiled. It was a sweet smile, as rich as heavy cream, and Basch crimsoned. “I bet.” She stood and grinned impishly at Basch. “Lucky for me, I own the one thing she _cannot_ have.”

Basch released Ashe's hand. “Lynn, speak not so before the Princess. She is a child.” He moved closer to Lynn, and brought his bewhiskered face close to her swarthy one. “She doesn't need to know about certain things just yet. She _is_ but five.”

Lynn rolled her eyes. “Softly, Sir Knight. She would not understand, even if we tried to explain sex to her.”

“Sex?” Ashe piped up behind Basch—a bit too far behind. “What's that?”

Grinding his teeth, Basch called over his shoulder, “Nothing of any importance, Your Highness.” He grabbed Lynn's arm, and drew her close. “She may be young and ignorant of many things, love, but the one thing she is _not_ is deaf. Enough, Lynn. I can see this is punishment for last night.”

“I don't like it when you stand me up, my dear,” said Lynn, a _moue_ of aggravation twisting her lips. “As long as you make it up to me tonight...”

A slow smile spread across his face. “This I promise you. Go. I'll meet you in the courtyard when the Princess is asleep.”

One sturdy, tiny hand caressed his cheek. “Done.” She peered around Basch's bulk. “See you at supper, Highness.”

“Bye,” said Ashe, distractedly. She knelt once again before Queen Sara's largest pond. Her mother's huge sunfish showed its golden self, fleetingly, before it sank beneath the wavelets. Delighted, Ashe reached out and touched the surface of the water. Concentric rings spread out from her outstretched fingers.

Lynn raised one hand in farewell to Basch, and he rewarded her with a warm smile. His _hou-ou_ winked at him from Lynn's décolletage. She turned her back, and strode purposefully away. He watched her go, and laughed ruefully. Lynn had a horrible temper, and was quick to anger. The Gods alone knew why he was so fond of her. He let the soporific, ambient sound of running water lull him.

More the fool, he was.

Insistent splashing drew Basch from his reverie. He turned, and gasped once. Ashe was gone. He called her, and was rewarded by a choking, gurgling cry—directly to his right. He did not think, but merely acted. He tore his sword-belt from his body, and jumped into the pond.

_It happened in an instant_ , he marveled as he sank to where Ashe was. _I didn't have time to think at all!_ Thank the Gods the pond was crystal-clear. He grabbed his charge, pushed off the bottom, and surfaced alongside the foot-bridge. Ashe spluttered for a moment before she grabbed the ledge. She turned around to look at Basch. He flailed once, twice, before gasping harshly. “Oh, no!” said he, before the weight of his own armor made him sink like a stone.

Ashe hauled herself onto the low-hanging bridge, and began screeching for help. Two burly soldiers came a-running. As they were alerted to the potential disaster, they hurriedly stripped their armor off.

Vossler took that opportunity to peer over one of the castle's many balustrades, alarmed by the noise. He blinked when he beheld Ashe, soaking-wet and crying as if her heart was breaking. “Princess! What ails you?”

She sniffled and wiped her nose against the back of her hand. “I fell in the pond.”

“What?” He frowned at the soldiers. One of them had finished tearing his armor off, and as Vossler watched, he dove into the pond. He dragged his gaze back to the little princess. “Where the hell is Basch?”

Ashe hiccuped once, and slowly pointed to the pond. Vossler's gaze followed her gesturing hand to the water. Horrified, he watched as a quick flurry of air bubbles broke the surface. Grimacing, he tore from the balcony, ran through the castle, and down the foot-bridge.

When Vossler arrived at the scene some moments later, the two soldiers hauled Basch halfway onto the footbridge. The waterlogged man drew a shaky, deep breath before spewing water onto the ageworn planking. He grasped the bridge in a death-grip, gasping. His sopping hair hung in his eyes. When he could, Basch tipped his sardonic gaze up to Vossler. “Who in Blazes makes a pond fifteen feet deep?”

“Mama did,” said Ashe. “For the sunfish. It's really big.”

Basch favored the little princess with a wide, sunny grin as ersatz as powdered milk. “I _know_ , Highness. The sunfish introduced itself to me when I was down there.”

“Allow me to help you, Basch,” said Vossler. He hooked his hands under the burly blond's armpits in an effort to haul him onto the bridge. When Basch would not come, Vossler blew an irritated sigh. “You need to help _me_ , Basch. I can't do this on my own...you men,” he motioned to his soldiers, “help me haul him up...”

“No.” Basch shook his head. “I shall stay here until every last one of you vacate.”

One of the soldiers laughed, and suddenly jumped back into the pond. The other soldier doubled over, his hands on his knees, laughing uproariously. “He'll not be coming out of the pond, Captain Azelas,” he said.

“Why not?”

Basch lay his head on the bridge. “Gods...can this get any worse?” he growled.

The other soldier surfaced again, coughing. He had nearly drowned himself, he laughed so hard. He tossed a sodden breastplate onto the bridge. “Want me to get the rest of your armor, Captain?”

Vossler screwed his lips together, lest he embarrass his friend further. “You...tore all of your armor off?”

“'Twas either that or drown, Vossler,” said Basch unsteadily. He turned an odd green color, and heaved once before his stomach called a shaky truce. “Not for lack of trying, methinks. I think I passed out after I got the last piece free.”

“You did,” said the second soldier. “It was a near thing, Captain fon Ronsenburg. You're lucky we got here when we did.”

One of his greaves materialized on the bridge. Its rescuer thumped Basch on the shoulder. “Come on, Captain...let me help...”

He shrugged out of the grip of his rescuer. “I am _en dishabille_! I will not come out until someone takes the Princess inside!” Basch heaved again, more insistently.

Vossler sighed. “I'm sure you weren't naked under the armor, Basch. What are you wearing?”

Another belly-heave, then: “My undershirt and my shorts.” He swept his hair out of his eyes. “It isn't proper for the Princess to see me in this state...oh, all right. I couldn't be any _more_ humiliated today.”

“All right,” said Vossler. He motioned to Basch with his outstretched hands. “Men. Help me drag the Captain out of yonder fish-pond.” They did so. Basch stood, his legs trembling, on the edge of the foot-bridge.

Without warning, Basch crashed to his knees. He knelt on the fine wooden planks, his head hanging and his hair dripping. He continued to gasp miserably. Again, his stomach did a loop-the-loop, and again he calmed it as best as he could.

Ashe, mostly forgotten in the hooraw, burst into fresh tears. It was all her fault, she knew—but that sneaking feeling of being bad was replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief that Basch was all right. She ran for her savior, sobbing.

Basch dry-heaved again, making a grinding sound deep in his throat. Vossler snickered. “I can fix that, friend,” said he, and raised his open hand to eye level. He brought his palm down smartly, and thumped Basch between the shoulder-blades. Basch brought his head up, as his mouth dropped open and all traces of color dropped from his countenance.

As Ashe approached Basch, he heaved again—and this time, he emptied the contents of his stomach...on Ashe.

She squeaked as he vomited that afternoon's tea—and what looked and felt like two gallons of pond-water—down the front of her dress. She picked at her dress gingerly, making small sounds of disgust. She raised her head to throw a fit, but remained silent when she got a good look at Basch's miserable face.

The good Captain rubbed at his mouth with the heel of his hand. “Princess Ashelia...Gods. Forgive me, I—I did not mean to...” Basch began.

He had little time to stammer an apology. Ashe hurled herself at Basch and wrapped her tiny arms around his shoulders. She began to sob in earnest against his bare shoulder. “I'm glad you're okay, Basch...I'm so sorry! I'll never be bad again! I'll listen to you when you tell me to do something...just don't ever die, Basch!”

Hesitantly, he brought his arms up and wrapped them around her slight shoulders. “I wish I could promise you that, Princess Ashelia,” said Basch slowly. He patted her back. “But I can promise you that I will do whatever I must to keep you safe.”

Snuffling, she gazed up at his rheumy eyes and hugged him tighter still. “I was so scared,” she whispered. “It was dark down there. I couldn't breathe...it was scary.”

He nodded into her hair. “I know, Ashelia. I was afraid, too.”

Wide eyes regarded Basch, as he uttered these surprising words. “You...were?”

He sat himself on the footbridge, and Ashe plopped automatically into Basch's lap. She dropped her head on his shoulder as he spoke. “I was mostly afraid that I would lose you, little one...but there was a tiny part of me that was terrified to die. I felt exactly the same way you did.”

She sighed, and it was such a lonely, hurt sound. She rubbed at her red-rimmed eyes. “I'm sorry, Captain. I'm gonna be punished for this, and I deserve it.”

Chuckling, Basch gave Ashe a brusque hug. “Speak not so, Princess Ashelia. 'Twas my fault. If I hadn't taken my eyes from you, we wouldn't have gone to say hello to your mother's sunfish.”

Ashe giggled, as Vossler knelt before her and her brave protector. “I do believe you both have some explaining to do.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Ashe's father stood behind Vossler, arms crossed, his face a thundercloud.

Ashe blinked up at her father-King, and smiled winsomely. “Basch threw up on me.”

“Indeed,” said Raminas.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Ashe watched as Idris hung over the waist-high railing and fed the sunfish. After her dunking in the pond, her father Raminas decreed that Basch's punishment was to build a taller railing along her mother's foot-bridges. Sara's private park was huge, and the foot-bridges connected her four or five ponds. It took the better part of a year to complete, what with his other duties.

Ashe never disobeyed Basch again after that—the good sense had been scared into her from her brush with death. From that moment until Basch was condemned as the Kingslayer, her childish eye saw him as her personal hero. He was immortal to her. According to Ashe, her protector was powerful beyond belief, the guardian of guardians.

She thought of Vossler. When Vossler told her the news of his apparent betrayal and subsequent execution, she wept for days. Vossler took Basch's place as her protector...and even if his actions were underhanded, his motives were clear. Like Basch, Vossler was a Dalmascan patriot.

She sighed again. She wondered...what would Vossler do in their situation? Would he have ordered the immediate invasion of Rozzaria, the moment they insisted on stirring up discordance? Ashe smiled sadly. There was no way of knowing, was there?

And now, twenty-odd years after his death, Ashe could finally think of Vossler and not feel a painful stab of remorse or regret.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Unbeknownst to Ashe, Basch stood above her at the curtains framing their French doors. He watched his children enjoy the day, and grinned artlessly at his family. Never in a million years did he ever expect this to come to pass, and because of that, he treasured what the Gods had decided to give him.

Idris laughed at the sunfish, and Basch felt his chest swell with pride. When Idris was born, Ashe jokingly warned Basch not to choose a favorite. He had laughed with Ashe, then, but apparently she knew Basch better than he knew himself.

Oh, but Eirlys...his daughter was growing up so quickly. Despite her uncanny resemblance to him, Basch could see Ashe in the way Eirlys perceived Ivalice. Her quick mind, her temper, her independence—she took after Ashe more and more each day. His daughter enjoyed the sun with _Yahri A to Z_ spread across her lap. Basch nodded once to himself. She would make a fine hunter _and_ a fine leader.

Fifteen. Gods, she was fifteen now. She was almost an adult. He thought back to a time when his own life held such promise—it was a time of few responsibilities and many unrealized dreams, up until Archades invaded Valendia and swallowed Landis whole.

When he was seventeen, he had made his way to Dalmasca; his pockets were empty, but his heart was full of an odd mixture of despondency and hope. He was just seventeen—and ignorant of the world around him.

He grunted. In light of the events that had spanned the past fifteen years, he sometimes wished he could regain that guilelessness. Sometimes, he wished that he could erase all the pain that he had endured...and had been author of.

Sometimes, despite every blessing given unto him, he thought about what he would give to start anew, to be seventeen again—to be deaf, dumb, and blind to his surroundings.

-=-=-=-=-=-

The day he first arrived in Dalmasca, he was filthy, starving, and incommunicado. Because his parents raised him provincially in Landis (despite his mother’s status as a member of the gentry in Archades), he was completely witless to Dalmasca’s language and customs.

His first night over the Dalmascan border found him in a run-down pub. He sat at the empty bar, and motioned the barkeep over—a slim, rangy older man. The bartender sauntered over, polishing an apple against his apron. The barkeep mistrustfully eyed the young foreigner, as he slapped a silver piece—his only worldly possession besides the clothes on his back—on the polished wood of the bar. “Gil,” the blond boy said, nodding at the coin. He learned the coin’s name that afternoon.

“I can see that, friend,” said the barkeep. “What are you drinking?”

“Eh?” The burly blond teenager shook his head, his eyebrows furrowed. The bartender laughed uproariously. He motioned to a young man in armor.

The dark-haired soldier ambled forward. “What is it now, Tak?”

The bartender hooked a thumb in the outlander’s direction. “We have a live one here, Vossler. A Valendian, by the looks of it.”

Vossler sidled close to the foreigner. “What’s your name?”

In his own language, the boy said, _“I…I don’t understand…”_

Vossler sighed, irritated. He pointed to his own chest. “Vossler.” He pointed to the blond teen’s chest, and raised his eyebrows.

The boy made a small sound of understanding in his throat. He curled his hand into a fist, and pounded his own chest. _“Baashiyu.”_

The barkeep snorted laughter. “That’s one hell of a name. These Valendians have to do everything grandiose, don’t they, Vossler? This one looks like a yokel. Bet he’s from Landis.”

Vossler grunted as Baashiyu’s face brightened. _“Ja! Lahndees!”_

“Well, that answers that,” said Vossler. “This ought to be interesting.” He motioned Baashiyu closer, and poked Baashiyu’s chest. “I’m going to call you Basch.”

“ _Nein,”_ said Baashiyu, shaking his head. He pounded on his chest, more insistently. _“Baashiyu!”_

“Whatever you say…Basch. We are going to educate you, yokel. The first thing you will learn here in Dalmasca—besides bathing regularly—is the language.” Vossler grinned at Tak. “It’s bad enough that we are surrounded by filthy Seeq that can hardly speak at all…now we have this lummox…right, Tak?”

“Just so,” said Tak. “Allow me to help.” Tak leaned on his elbows, and pushed the coin to Baashiyu’s side of the bar. “Gil.”

Baashiyu nodded. _“Ja.”_

Tak brandished his apple at Baashiyu. “Apple, Basch. Can you say ahhhh-pull, Basch?”

“ _Baashi…never mind,”_ said Baashiyu in his own tongue. He frowned mightily when the two men burst into hearty laughter again...but then he began to chuckle along with Tak and Vossler, as true understanding dawned. _“You two think I’m an ignoramus, don’t you?”_

“I think this one’s an ignoramus, Tak,” said Vossler, chuckling goatish laughter.

“ _You two are unbelievable,”_ said Baashiyu in Valendian. He laughed harder. _“I can speak three languages, I can parse Old Valendian, I’m well-schooled in tact and strategy, I know the difference between a waltz and a minuet, and I’m thoroughly convinced that_ you _are the half-wit…Vossler.”_ Baashiyu thumped Vossler’s shoulder. _“Thank you ever so much for being kind to a stranger…you horse’s arse.”_

Vossler slung one arm across Baashiyu’s broad shoulders, chummily drew him closer—and then punched him so hard in the stomach that Baashiyu doubled over. His breath _whoofed_ out of his lungs. He dropped to his knees.

Vossler hooked one hand in Baashiyu's armpit, and hauled him to his feet. _“I'm no half-wit...Baashiyu,”_ said Vossler in Valendian. _“You may not understand me, friend, but I can understand_ you _just fine.”_

Baashiyu rolled his eyes. _“That figures,”_ he wheezed.

Tak turned to look at Vossler. “What's the moron saying?”

Vossler grinned, and clapped Baashiyu on the back. “Nothing, Tak. We were just getting all of this—unpleasantness—out of the way... _ja, Baashiyu?”_

Baashiyu squared his shoulders, and obscenely flipped his first two fingers at Vossler. He opened his mouth, and spoke the first three words he had learned in this strange land. He heard it enough times today to get the gist of what it meant, and he figured that it was an insult of the highest caliber. He enunciated each word, so that there was no question of what he was saying.

“Fuck yoor mutter.”

Every trace of color dropped from Vossler's face, as Tak laughed. “Oh-hoh, Voss—looks like this young man wants to be beaten senseless.” The bartender chuckled darkly, and motioned to Baashiyu with his chin. “Wants it pretty bad, actually.”

Baashiyu stood his ground, and curled his hands into fists. He motioned Vossler closer with them. _“Let’s go, you moose,”_ said Baashiyu in his native tongue. _“Come on, half-wit. Want to take on a foreigner for laughs? Let’s see who’ll be laughing last!”_

Vossler sighed melodramatically. “I guess he does, Tak,” he said—and as quick as lightning, Baashiyu was on his back. His hands clapped over his fountaining nose. Vossler tutted under his breath as he turned his back on Baashiyu—which turned out to be a mistake of the highest magnitude.

Tak chuckled again, and glanced down at the foreigner. His eyes bulged, and he opened his mouth. “Voss—watch it!”

Vossler whirled around, just in time to see Baashiyu lace his fingers together and bring his fists down on his shoulder. The blow drove Vossler to his knees. The foreigner lashed out with one boot, and Vossler flipped onto _his_ back, his mouth spurting blood.

He dragged himself to a sitting position, and knuckled blood from his lips. _“I'm going to spoil those good looks, my friend,”_ said Vossler. He stood, and curled his own hands into fists.

“ _Come, then! My life couldn't get any worse!”_ Baashiyu clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails dug into his palms, abrading them. Blood seeped sluggishly between his fingers. _“My country is gone! My mother has gone home to Archades...back to the bastards that destroyed my homeland! Everything that I am—everything that I could call my own is GONE! I've come here, to find a new home...and everywhere I've gone, I've found nothing but_ ridicule _!”_ He dropped his hands, hung his head. _“It's what I deserve, for abandoning my mother and brother. Do what you will. I care not.”_

Vossler slowly approached the young man. _“You’re one hell of a fighter.”_ He rubbed his aching jaw. _“Were you being serious earlier...about knowing all those languages? About being skilled in tactics?”_

Baashiyu nodded. _“Yes. Why the hell do you want to know?”_

“ _We could use a man like you in our military,”_ said Vossler simply, swiping more blood from his broken mouth. Baashiyu blinked at Vossler, and Vossler stared back unflinchingly. Finally, Baashiyu turned on his heel. He returned to the bar, and glared at the bartender.

“Tak,” said the foreigner.

“That's me, friend,” said Tak. “What is it...erm, Baashiyu, was it?”

The man seated across from Tak shook his head slowly. _“Nein.”_ Baashiyu pointed at his heart. “Basch,” he said.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Basch grinned, despite himself. He hadn't thought of Vossler in—Gods, it must have been ten years hence. He suddenly wished that the events that led to Vossler's death did not pan out the way they had. He had considered Vossler a true friend. When Vossler's betrayal was first painfully evident, it had felt like his comrade had stuck a cruel dagger in his heart. The pain diminished over time, but Basch could not help but wonder—was it truly too late to help Vossler, when he allowed himself to die on the foredeck of the _Shiva_? Was Vossler past _everyone's_ help, even then? And on the heels of that: what kind of man would Vossler be, had he lived?

He leaned against the door-jamb, arms crossed. Pensively, he wondered if other men his age felt the years as he did. As sixty neared, he felt so damned old. He looked ten years younger than he was, but that didn't change how he felt. He watched his children grow, and each birthday they celebrated exacerbated his own condition.

Gods. What did Ashe see in him, now that he was an old man? Since the day he realized he was in love with Ashe, he dreamed of the moment that she would respond to him in kind. He spent his whole life dreaming of her. He realized with a pang that he wasted his whole life on a dream.

He addressed the now-empty foot-bridge plaza below his window. “I've dreamed my life away.”

A familiar, much-loved voice floated over his shoulder. “Why do you say that?”

He glanced over his shoulder, and smiled briefly at Ashe. “I wasted my life waiting for you to realize my feelings. I was too cowardly to tell you how I felt about you. Because of my cowardice, I whiled my life away on a pipe dream.”

“Are you trying to rile me?” Ashe looped her arm around his waist. “I'm sure you don't mean to insult me...even though you are...”

“Many apologies, Highness,” said Basch. “I mean to say that because I could not let my feelings be known, I let my life flit by. I prayed that one day you'd realize my feelings for you, as if you were a mind reader.” He smiled humorlessly. “It is my fault I have found myself in this state, with nothing to show for it.”

Ashe grunted. “Nothing save a loving wife, two beautiful children, and a kingdom. You poor, poor man.”

Basch turned from the window, glanced at Ashe, and laughed half-heartedly. “Sorry. Age can make a man maudlin, Ashe. I will always be young with you around. You and the children warm me. No matter how cold it is outside, it is spring—forever spring—when you are with me.”

Ashe chuckled with Basch as she looped her arm around his, but her heart gave a squeeze. Again, she glimpsed the shadow of the man she fell in love with. She saw the robust, powerful man in his laughing eyes and smiling mouth, felt him in the ropy muscle of his arm, heard him in his laughter. It hurt to see her husband in such a state, but she had to face facts. Aging was a part of life, as inevitable as the cycle of life and birth.

_And death,_ chided a voice in her head, laughing derisively. _Death, too, Ashe...and how much more time do you have with this old man?_

She shooed the voice away. _Basch isn't old, not by any stretch of the imagination...enough!_

The voice went silent in her head...but she could still hear its sarcastic laughter.


	9. Alpha

The war that Rozarria had declared on Archades and Dalmasca did not end. Verily, it intensified. What was once cold and silent now had boiled over into all-out bloodshed. The final year in their tale—Eirlys's fifteenth year, and Idris's twelfth—found all of Ivalice tangled in what had become the bloodiest conflict in its history.

And despite every precaution taken, it had still migrated to Dalmascan soil.

There was no end in sight. Dalmasca had dived deep into the black heart of warfare. As the years wore on, Ashe had no choice but to institute laws thought to be antiquated and barbaric. She began the draft, to the chagrin of her people. She insisted on martial law.

Despite all the fail-safes that she had instituted, her people were still in mortal danger. Ashe's cabinet members died, one by one; victims of Rozarrian assassins, victims of hate. Her Army's soldiers died by the hundreds, in an attempt to protect her country's borders. She watched her people flee to Archades, and die there. There was nowhere left for her people to run.

She knew. She knew that her soldiers were going AWOL. She knew that they ran under the cover of darkness. They ran to Archades. They ran to Bhujerba. They ran to Nalbina. Wherever they ran, their enemies found them. And on foreign soil, they were dying.

Ashe’s children grew up far too fast. Damn the Rozarrians! If there was any way she could shield her children from the ravages of war, then she would. She could not. Her children grew up under the shadow of war. Together, her family watched their country disintegrate.

And, most discomfiting—Ashe watched in silence, as Basch died a bit more every day.

-=-=-=-=-=-

One week before everyone’s life changed forever, Basch paced the floor of his study. His insides twisted with worry and doubt. He knew that his countrymen had abandoned the idea of the Kingslayer years ago, but that small, nagging doubt nipped at his gut like rats with small, sharp teeth. Would they accept wholeheartedly his station as their regent? _Should_ they?

He turned to the doorway, as Ashe materialized there. She crossed the room to her husband. “You wanted to speak with me about something? We have a pressing engagement with Emperor Larsa this evening. What is it that’s so important?”

“I know what will make our countrymen strong. I know what will make them _want_ to stride into battle with light hearts and unbending conviction.” Basch locked eyes with Ashe. “Your soldiers have no one to follow. That is why they are deserting you.”

“How do you know that?” Ashe stared at her husband. “What makes you think they are deserting us?”

“They have their generals, but it isn't enough,” said Basch, ignoring her words. “Your own generals die as quickly as the soldiers they command. They need someone to lead them into battle...someone who is as well-known and as well-loved as their Queen.”

Ashe crossed her arms. “And who would that be?”

He stood slowly, and drew Ashe into his arms. “Me.”

Twisting out of his embrace, she shook her head vehemently. “Absolutely not! I'll not lose you to a hare-brained scheme!”

Basch sighed, a papery, lost sound. “It cannot be helped. Our people must not fail you. They _are_ , now, because they have nothing that binds them together. You are losing support from your troops, Ashe. If the Rozarrians invade Rabanastre proper, then all is lost.” He grabbed Ashe's shoulders, and shook her slightly. His countenance suddenly blazed into life. “Help me, Ashelia—please! We can turn the tables on the Rozarrians, if only you would help me rouse our people!”

“You could _die_!”

“I know this,” said Basch. His gaze softened. “I would die for you, every single moment of my life.”

Ashe blinked at Basch. Realization sank into her pores at precisely that moment—he was right. And to keep him from his station in life would only make him die inside, inch by inch, until he was a mere shell...a parody of a Hume. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “It hurts to think of your mortality, Darling. I've been hiding you here in the Royal Compound. I've been making you old.”

“Never, love,” Basch replied. “You keep me young.”

She smiled sweetly, and knew the lie for what it was. “You're right. I will help you. And I will not harbor the fairytale that you will live forever. Not for another moment.”

Basch smiled at her, a trifle sadly. “Every man dies, love. It is inevitable as sunrise and sunset.” He touched Ashe’s cheek. “Besides, if I were to die, I would wait for you in the Summerlands until the day after eternity.”

“You know just what to say to placate me. You charmer,” said Ashe. She grinned at her husband in such a way that always made Basch crimson, much to his chagrin.

With the expected, pleased flush seeping into his face, Basch tilted his head at his wife. “So…what are you going to discuss with Lord Larsa?”

She made a _moue_. “ _We_ , Basch. You and I are going to discuss Al-Cid with Larsa, actually.”

He drew his brows together. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Al-Cid Margrace in years. “What _about_ him?”

“He has disappeared into Rozarria,” said Ashe fretfully. “The only person he keeps in contact with is his sister Marguerite—and by association, Larsa. The news from Al-Cid is confusing at best…or so says the Emperor.”

“Why would Al-Cid disappear to _Rozarria_? He may be a prince of the country, but he is also a Resistance patriot. Wouldn't he be unwelcome in his own country?” Basch made a confused face. “There is no gestalt.”

“I know,” said Ashe. “That is what we’re going to discuss tonight. Balthier will be here as well.”

“Balthier?” Basch pressed his lips together. “He has news, doesn’t he?”

Ashe spread her hands. “We’ll find out tonight.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Idris sat at his father's desk, poring over his schoolbooks. He waited for his father to arrive at his study. Basch insisted that the boy's education be put in his own hands. Idris grimaced. He almost wished his education were in the hands of one of his governesses. Perhaps then, his schooling would be a mite easier. His father was a slave-driver, and insisted on cramming as much knowledge into his noggin as he could. There were days that Idris's very head felt stretched and bulging with information.

His favorite study, though (and his father's, thankfully), was of Ivalice's history—ancient and recent alike. His world's history was a bloody one, and recent events were no exception. His _Ivalice: A History_ book lay before him, huge and imposing.

He flipped to the most recent events in the enormous tome. He read of the bombing attempt on the Rabanastran branch of the Church of Galtea some fifteen years ago, a few days before his sister Eirlys's birth. He read of Mount Bur Omisace's sacking; of the Rozarrian bomb that took out half of his mother's Cabinet two years ago; of the Cold War; and most distressingly, of the very recent bloodshed that spread across Ivalice.

It concerned him that the war was intensifying. It bothered him in a way that his twelve-year-old mind could not put into cohesive words. He hated that his own countrymen were dying. He cocked his elbow on his father's mahogany desk and plonked his chin in his hand. Were he King, he would fight at the front lines with his soldiers.

He slipped into his favorite daydream. In it, he donned his father's old armor—the armor Papa wore before he married Mama and took on his long-dead uncle's mantle as Lord Larsa's protector. He stood in the stirrups of Jenny (his family’s chocobo, and never mind that she was as old as dirt now), and thrust Save the Queen high over his head. Dalmasca’s countrymen boomed their acceptance of the Army's General. The sea of Dalmascans darkened the hills and rolling countryside of Idris’s dreamscape.

“To Archades!” his grown-up self intoned. “We shall drive the Rozarrian scum back to whence they had come!”

_Iddy..._

In his daydream, Idris flexed his mighty muscles (he was _sure_ he was going to have his father's mass when he grew up...he had to, as he inherited much of his father’s looks anyway...), and smiled at his troops. “We shall prevail, my friends! Tonight, we shall be victorious!”

_Iddy!_

Idris's daydream doppelganger glanced up and over his shoulder at the balustrade high above his head. His sister stood there, older, wiser, and as pretty as their Mama in her own shimmering samite. The crown of Dalmasca sat proudly atop Eirlys's head, her handsome husband stood just as proudly at her side. In his daydream, she had married Jerrold, Larsa and Mags's first-born son. In real life, Lyssa and Jerrold were to be married as soon as Jerrold was old enough. He and Lyssa were grown-ups in his daydream, so it was natural that Jerrold would make an appearance in his daydream as a grown-up, too.

_Idris!_

He addressed his troops in his mindscape, and his troops hung onto every single word breathlessly. “Today, we will fight for the freedom of Dalmasca...for Archades...for the freedom of all Ivalice! We fight in the name of my mother—Ashelia the Just! We fight in the name of my father—Noah the Lionheart!” He basked in the love of his countrymen…

“Good _grief_ , Idris! _Mind_ me!”

Idris snapped out of his daydream, and looked up from Basch's desk. When he beheld his father's silver hair and his well-worn, well-loved features, he smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Papa.”

Basch's stony countenance softened somewhat when Idris grinned at him so disarmingly. “Daydreaming, Iddy?”

Idris shrugged. “Sorry,” he repeated.

Basch dragged a chair over to his desk, turned it backwards, and straddled it. Idris grinned again, because didn't _he_ sit like that, too? Basch crossed his arms on the back of the chair, and rested his chin on his arms. “Tell me—what were you thinking about, Iddy?”

Suddenly bashful, Idris played with the blotter on Papa's desk. “I was thinking about what it would be like to be a grown-up.”

Basch smiled at his already half-grown son. “Will you tell me about your daydream?”

Nodding, Idris continued. “I was General of the Dalmascan Army...just like you were, Papa, except I wasn't King like you. Jerrold got to be King, 'cause he's going to marry Lyssa.”

Surprised at his son's reflection, Basch let his gaze drift to the far side of the room. “Is that how you see me, Iddy? As Dalmasca's King?”

“Of course I do,” said Idris, with a tone that said _are you dead between the ears?_ “Everyone does, Papa.”

“Do they, now,” said Basch quietly. “I must be blind.”

“When people talk about you, they say 'His Majesty', and stuff like that. It's even in my History book.”

He snapped his gaze back to his son. “What?”

To prove his point, Idris dragged his History tome closer, and flipped pages until he was nearly to the end. “Sincerely! Look!”

Basch pulled the tome closer, absently reached into his pocket, and fished out a pair of spectacles. Those were a fairly new addition to Basch’s wardrobe. To Basch's chagrin, he realized he needed them for reading. For his fifty-eighth birthday, Balthier had a pair sent to him from the finest optician in Archades, with a cheeky note attached to the bow: _Welcome to the club._

He slipped the spectacles on, and drew them down his nose. He peered at the book.

Sure enough, there was an illumination of him in his brother's suit of armor, and beneath the illustrated plate were the words _King Noah fon Ronsenburg, born O.V. 670 -, married to Queen Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca & reigned O.V. 714 - _

Basch blinked, astounded. He looked up at Idris. “All of _Ivalice_ considers me a regent of Dalmasca?”

“Uh-huh,” said Idris, who had then fallen silent. Basch let him, as he was lost in his own thoughts.

_This shall be easier that I originally thought,_ Basch thought exultantly. _One speech delivered to my troops—just one!—and I shall hear the adulation of our people again. I shall once again feel my blood sing in battle. Save the Queen will dance again!_

Idris shook him out of his reverie. “Papa? There was something I’ve meant to ask you.”

“What is it, Iddy?”

Again, the huge tome made its way across Basch’s desk, and again Idris riffled through the pages. “Mama calls you Basch, but everyone else calls you Noah. I’ve even heard Auntie Penelo call you Basch.” Idris pointed to a small footnote in his history book. “It says here that Basch fon Ronsenburg killed King Raminas—my grandfather, and that Noah fon Ronsenburg executed Basch fon Ronsenburg for High Treason.” Idris licked his lips nervously, but did not drop his gaze. “Who are you, really?”

Basch stared at Idris levelly, before he nodded to himself. “I suppose you are old enough to hear the truth, Iddy.” He composed himself. “Idris, I _am_ Basch fon Ronsenburg. Your uncle—my twin brother—his name was Noah fon Ronsenburg. ‘Twas he who killed King Raminas, and lay the blame at my feet. I was imprisoned for two years in the Black Watch’s oubliette in Nalbina.”

Idris gasped once; his countenance slack and disbelieving. As if he had asked, Basch nodded once. “It nearly killed me, Iddy. The only thing that kept me alive was the fire of conviction in my gut. That, and the vision of your mother in my mind.

“Your uncle asked me to take his place at Lord Larsa’s side, as he lay dying from Vayne’s mortal blow.”

“Vayne _Solidor_? _That_ Vayne?” Idris’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

“The same. He had become the Novus, then, and was unbelievably powerful. One blow was enough to kill Noah…to crush his bones to powder, and to pulverize his innards.”

Idris sat, silent as death, as he pondered that last. “Criminy,” he said finally. He couldn’t clarify his feelings any further than that, so he repeated himself.

Basch smiled, but the warmth did not reach his eyes. “There are days that I think about that battle. What could have been—and whether or not Noah’s final request was his final punishment.”

“I—I don’t understand…”

Basch waved his son’s puzzlement away. “I know. I’m sorry I brought that up. One day, when you’re older, we shall discuss this further. Now, go and fetch your short-sword. We’ll spar until Balthier and Djan arrive. You get to keep Djan company.”

Idris made a sour face. “I hate playing with her.”

“Why?” Basch hid a tiny smile behind his hand.

“Because she’s my age, but looks and acts like a baby.” Idris studied his hands. “She always wants to play with her dolls and pick flowers.”

Basch laughed heartily. “Iddy, not everyone can be like you. And you must understand that Viera age differently than Humes. They live twice as long as we do, so it would make sense that they mature twice as slowly.”

Idris nodded, and on the heels of that: “What happened to Djan's mother?”

Shocked by the sudden change in conversation, Basch cocked an eyebrow. “You never met Fran, did you?” Even though his query was rhetorical, Idris shook his head. Smiling, Basch continued. “Your mother and Fran were pregnant at the same time for a month or two. Fran found that her village would welcome her back for the event, so she and Balthier traveled to Eruyt for Djan's birth. They never made it. Djan decided she was ready to come forth, a half-day's walk from Eruyt. Fran gave birth in the jungles outside the Viera village.”

He lapsed into a morose silence, which Idris broke. “But what happened to Fran?”

As he studied his hands, Basch unconsciously grimaced. “She died, when Djan came forth.”

“Oh.” Idris mirrored his father, then said, “Djan isn't half-Viera. Balthier's not her Papa, is he?”

Basch shook his head. “No. Fran's mate impregnated her two years prior.” He flushed slightly, a trifle embarrassed to speak of such things to his twelve-year-old son. “Gota—her mate—found them first. He knew that Fran was en-route to Eruyt. He helped Balthier take Fran's body to the village, and disappeared.”

“Is that why Balthier has Djan?”

“In part,” said Basch. “Fran's sister Jote could have taken Djan...'twas her right. But she asked Balthier what _he_ wanted to do, because Jote and the rest of the village saw Balthier as Fran's mate, also. Because he was so distraught over Fran's death, he decided to take Djan, and raise her as his own.”

Quiet descended. Idris wanted to hug Basch, then, because he could see that his Papa wanted to cry. Oh, he couldn't see the tears or anything—Papa wasn't a blubbering baby—but his face was so very sad. Idris struggled with the conundrum. As he grew older, he found that he didn't know how to show his father affection without looking like a sissy, but he was still young enough that he wanted his father to know that he loved him. Idris decided that he would hug him. He stood, approached Basch, and embraced him. Basch returned the hug wordlessly.

A light, rapid tapping on the study door made both of them jump slightly. Ashe's voice floated through the heavy ironwood door. “Balthier is here, Basch.” Ashe opened the door, and smiled at the men in her life. “Send Idris to mind Djan. You don't mind...do you, Iddy?”

“Guess not,” said Idris resignedly. As he stood to take his leave, his father tugged at his sleeve.

“Your sister's dolls are in her storage closet, Iddy,” said Basch with a wink. “Have fun.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

They met in Ashe's court-room, where she received visitors. Eirlys sat apart from the adults, by Ashe and Basch's insistence. She would not argue with her mother or father on that point; she was thrilled to be allowed entrance to their discussion at all. Not only would she listen in on state matters (she loved it when she was privy to information she would normally hear second-hand), she got to see Jerrold.

She was affianced to the swarthy, blue-eyed, twelve-year-old Archadian prince. At first, she wasn't thrilled about the prospect, but when she got to know the quiet boy, she relished the fact that she and he would one day be married. When they were little, she loved that he played chess just about as well as she did, and he was aces when they played King of the Hill. Now that they were older, she looked at him differently. She still liked to play war-games with him, but lately, Eirlys would much rather look at the blue of his eyes or the way his hair curled...more often than not, with a tiny quiver.

Jerrold stood next to his father, and stole a glance at Eirlys. He blushed furiously before dropping his gaze to his feet. Last summer, just after his twelfth birthday, she and he shared a sweet, fumbling kiss that had made her warm and shivery-cold all at once. Since then, Jerrold was increasingly bashful around her. It only endeared Jerrold to Eirlys more.

Before Eirlys could launch into another sickening-sweet daydream about Jerrold's sweet kiss, Larsa cleared his throat. The palaver was about to begin, and even Eirlys could not ignore the Emperor.

“Ashe,” said Larsa, “The news from Al-Cid is distressing. He wouldn't go into specifics, but it seems that his family is ready to send Rozarria's main troops to Archades in a full-out invasion.”

“This isn't news. Why is this so pressing?” Ashe crossed her arms, irritated. “We've been playing Cat and Mouse with Rozarria for fifteen years. I am tired of this game.”

Larsa nodded slowly. “I know this. That isn't why I'm here. Marguerite and I have discussed this, and we think the letters that Mags receives from Al-Cid are not _from_ Al-Cid. We think they are cunningly wrought forgeries.”

Basch, who had been silent since Larsa's arrival, spoke up. “This does not bode well. For all we know, Al-Cid is dead, and the Rozarrian Royals have been sending you letters in his name to lull you.”

“Mags thought that, as well,” said Larsa. “The last letter sent from 'Al-Cid' asked that we meet with him at the Imperial Compound. This could be a trap of the highest magnitude.”

“It might be,” said Balthier, frowning. “But I think you're missing the point. _I_ don't think Al-Cid is dead, and I don't think those letters are forgeries.”

Larsa rose from his chair, and crossed the room to Balthier. “Why do you think this?”

He dropped his gaze to a hand-made set of chess pieces, set on an ash-and-rosewood board before him. He picked up one of the kings, and grinned mirthlessly at Basch's likeness. “I've seen Al-Cid recently.”

“ _What_?” Larsa placed his hands to either side of the chessboard, and leaned close to Balthier. “Where?”

“On my travels, I see many things. I've been through Rozarria twice this year. I made my way through the country en-route to Dalmasca. I spotted a training camp of some sort some seventy or eighty miles from your very borders, Lady Ashe. Al-Cid was there. He didn't see me, of course—if he did, I rather doubt I would be here talking to you now. I think he is a general of some sort on Rozarria's side.” Balthier pursed his lips. “If he is indeed playing for the other side, and you've been corresponding with him, you can be sure that any information you've given him has made it to Royal ears.”

Larsa dropped his head. His hands curled into fists, and he brought them down savagely on the chessboard. Chess pieces flew. “Gods damn it all! I trusted him. _I trusted him!_ ”

“Softly, Lord Larsa,” said Basch. “We have no proof yet that he has played Archades false. A sighting in an enemy camp is not cause for alarm yet—forgive me, Balthier...”

“No offense taken,” said Balthier slowly. “I think I see where you are going with this.”

Basch pinched the bridge of his nose, and strode across the room. “He might be playing the _Rozarrians_ false. This might be an elaborate ruse to lull the Rozarrian royals into a false sense of security. Larsa,” said Basch, turning to the Archadian emperor, “has Al-Cid caused you to mistrust him before?”

“No, never.”

“We can get to the bottom of this, as soon as Al-Cid comes calling.” Basch dropped his hands to his sides. “To accuse him of this if he is innocent would be almost as bad as allowing him to cart information back to his people, were he not. When is he expected in Archades?”

“Five days,” said Larsa. “What do you have in mind?”

Ashe moved a rolling writing desk to her divan. “We can mobilize our troops in that time, if we had to. They have been ready for deployment for months, now. Homeland security has been in place for years. The soldiers deployed will not leave our country unguarded. If we use our flagship, we can have our soldiers in Archades in two days. The _Leviathan_ is at your command, Lord Larsa.”

The tall, lithe emperor stood, arms akimbo. “I thank you, Ashe.” He sighed. “I won't lie to you. I am worried about my family—my wife, my children...I worry about them.”

“Well...you're certainly not the only one, Majesty,” said Balthier. He laced his fingers behind his head. “Every parent worries about their children, in war or in peace. It's par for the course.”

As if his words summoned her, Djan burst through the door. She scurried to where Balthier sat, her tiny high-heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Djan flung herself into Balthier's arms with a heart-rending wail. “Dadeeee! Idris pulled my ears!”

“Oh, poor Djan!” Balthier buried his face in her silvery hair. “And why would Idris do that?”

Djan snuffled as she wiped her dainty little nose with the back of her hand. “I threw a doll at him.”

Idris ran through the door, out of breath. “It's all her fault!” He pointed to Djan, then motioned to his own head. “She threw Lyssa's porcelain doll at me! I have a bump on my head from it!”

“No harm done, was there?” Balthier smoothed Djan's hair from her fine brow.

Ashe motioned to Idris, and he approached Ashe's divan. “Apologize to Djan.”

“Sorry,” said Idris, sounding anything but. Djan stuck her tongue out at him.

Idris lay down on the divan, close to Ashe. She slung her arm around her son's neck. “Ready yourself, Idris. We're taking a trip.”

He brightened, and shared a delighted grin with his older sister. “Where?”

“Archades. I'll not leave you here with your governesses, when your father and I go.” I want you both close to me.” Ashe smiled at Basch. “Your father is going to general the troops there.”

Idris glanced at his father, and Basch's heart felt ready to burst from the pride that shone from Idris's countenance. “Excellent, Papa!”

As Djan played with the gilt on his jerkin, Balthier raised his eyebrows slightly. “What will your other generals think of this?”

“Even _they_ need someone to bind them together,” said Basch. “Our armies are losing cohesion, because there is nothing to keep their morale up. I plan to rectify that.”

“Good luck,” said Balthier. “No mean feat, that.”

Not one to mince words, Basch locked eyes with his friend. “We need you, Balthier. We need someone to lead our ballistics forces.”

Balthier laughed derisively. “Cut to the chase, why don't you?” He shook his head. “I can't do it. I have other things that occupy my time now.” He wrapped his arms around his diminutive 'daughter'. “She means the world to me. I won't do anything to jeopardize myself and leave her without a parent.”

“There is no guarantee that she will _not_ be orphaned, if Rozarria takes over,” said Basch tersely.

He mulled it over for many moments, and held Djan close. Without looking at Basch, he said, “I will come with you to Archades.”

Ashe blew a relieved sigh. “Thank you, Balthier...”

“You do not have my gun, Highness—not yet,” Balthier said, interrupting Ashe's words. “Give me time, will you?”

“Done.” Basch glanced at Ashe, who had sunk herself deep into her divan. The small rolling desk hovered over her lap, and her quill flew across the parchment there. She was a master of the written word.

She looked up when she felt the weight of her husband's gaze, and smiled at him. “Nearly finished.”

Djan jumped from Balthier's lap, and crossed the room to Ashe's divan. “Whatcha doin'?”

“This,” said Ashe, motioning to the parchment, “is a speech that Uncle will give to his troops.”

The giver of said speech frowned apprehensively. “Ashe...do you really think our armies will warm to my generalship, just because of one speech?”

Ashe tipped him a wink. “Basch, the Gods _themselves_ would bow to your will. Mark my words...you will have my armies in the palm of your hand.”


End file.
